


hold me tight (or don't)

by ectobaby



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human/Troll Society (Homestuck), Alternate Universe - No Sburb/Sgrub Sessions, Friends With Benefits, Friends to Lovers, Idiots in Love, M/M, Minor Dave Strider/Karkat Vantas, Minor Dirk Strider/Karkat Vantas, Miscommunication, Mutual Pining, Roommates, mild sexuality crisis
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-20
Updated: 2020-06-12
Packaged: 2021-03-01 00:21:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 29,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23226235
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ectobaby/pseuds/ectobaby
Summary: There are about five million reasons why they shouldn’t be doing this. Dirk can list them off alphabetically.(Or, Dirk hooks up with his straight roommate, catches a case of feelings, and promptly makes things worse.)
Relationships: John Egbert/Dirk Strider
Comments: 209
Kudos: 465





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> because it was just a matter of time before i wrote a _gasp! oh my god, they were roommates_ au for these two dumbasses. a big thanks to huss, who allowed me to hammer out some prose of this horny au that we riffed together. i love you.
> 
> title from fob. 
> 
> sidenote: all the dirkkat and davekat are minor and/or off-screen, the only explicit scenes are with dirk and john. though, i might be coerced into writing a companion piece of the dirkkat eventually...that might be fun. also, the first chapter is just straight up smut so...you've been warned.

Dirk isn’t sure at what point the conversation takes a sharp pivot directly into the dumpster fire that serves as his love life—or, more specifically, his bedroom position preferences. But, sometime around midnight, John asks him which he _prefers_ and he loses his winning streak in their two-man Mortal Kombat tournament.

On the screen, Kano bounces in his victory pose, mirrored by John who leans back on the couch with his arms crossed over his chest and a goofy grin on his face. It’s the grin of an asshole who knows he’s just committed two fatalities. Swift and brutal, and smug as hell.

He did that shit on purpose.

“I’m going to pretend you didn’t just ask me that,” Dirk says, button-mashing back to the main menu.

“Okay! Pretend I’m asking about bunk beds!”

“Oh my god.”

“So, top or bottom?”

Dirk groans and tries his best to hide the uptick of his mouth. He’s not going to smile. He’s not, and he’s also not doing this, whatever this is. So, Dirk tells him— “I’m not doing this.”

“C’mon,” he whines. “I’m curious!”

Dirk snorts back a laugh. Curious, sure. That’s not what he’d call John Egbert. The guy is unintentionally a walking Straight Pride parade—cargo shorts in the summer, cargo pants in the winter, and conversion cargo _pants_ that unzip into cargo _shorts_ in the in-between months when the weather can’t decide if it’s cool or hot. Honestly, that’s enough to prove his point without going through a list of all the painfully heterosexual qualities that John possesses.

Point is, John’s not _curious_ —at least, not in that sense.

“No,” Dirk deadpans. He sets up the game for another round and chooses Scorpion. It’ll be refreshing as hell to rip out his spine. “You’re distracting me. Now, hurry up. I’m want to beat your ass before I call it a night.”

“So, you’re a top.”

Dirk chokes. “What?”

“You wanna beat my ass,” John says, wiggling his eyebrows over the rim of his glasses. “Sounds toppy.”

“Toppy,” Dirk repeats, monotone. “Your comprehension of the lingo is truly astounding.”

He gets an eye roll and huff, along with an amused _whatever_ when he picks back up the controller, but Dirk knows that John’s too stubborn to drop the subject completely. Jesus. Get a beer or two in him and he wants to know a guy’s most intimate secrets. Not that Dirk feels the need to hide, or even gets the impression that John would judge him. Dude is probably the least judgmental person he’s ever met.

But there are just some things that you _don’t_ tell your straight roommate.

“I’ve never bottomed,” Dirk tells him, and, yeah, that’s one of them. He scrambles to explain. “So, I guess I prefer to top. Final answer, Alex. Moving on.”

“What is _I’m a top_ ,” John corrects. “Jeopardy answers are in question format.”

Dirk knocks his fucking lights out in-game. “Shut up.”

“So, how do you know you prefer to top if you’ve never, you know.”

“Jeopardy’s over.”

“It’s the Daily Double.”

John gets a good combo hit in and his health depletes by nearly half. Shit. Dirk sighs and decides it isn’t worth arguing the mechanics of a trivia game show because, while that’s _definitely_ not what the Daily Double means, he knows John doesn’t give a shit.

“Guess I don’t,” Dirk mumbles. “How do you know you don’t like to bottom?”

“I’m not gay,” John replies matter-of-factly. “Do you just not want to?”

How is this his life? How is the universe allowing this conversation to happen? Maybe if he’s really explicit with his answer he can weird him out enough to drop it—possibly drop all future conversations about it too.

“The guys that I hook-up with just want me to fuck them,” Dirk tells him. Okay, pretty tame, he knows, but there’s something about John’s earnest and buck-toothed face that makes it difficult to look him in the eye and confess that he’s pretty good with his dick. Even more difficult to admit he has a reputation for it.

“But you want to try?”

“Sure. I guess if I found someone who wanted to give it a go—why not?” Dirk shrugs. Bit of an understatement. He’s known he was gay since he was thirteen, maybe even before that, and after fifteen years, he’s very much aware that it’s a damn shame no one has wanted to bend him over yet. A goddamn travesty of the highest caliber. “I’m not holdin’ my breath though.”

“I’ll do it.”

The controller fumbles right out of Dirk’s hand and clatters to the floor. “What?”

John polishes off his beer with a content sigh. He nods, nonchalant as ever. “I’ll fuck you.”

Oh.

“Uh.”

“Yeah, who better than me?” John chimes. “It’ll be fun.”

_Fun._

Something below Dirk’s beltline twitches, and it’s most definitely his traitorous dick. No. Back the fuck up. The first dick he takes _isn’t_ going to be John Egbert. His straight roommate. His brother’s best friend. Hell— _his_ best friend. His straight friend. His very straight friend. John’s not even hot, Dirk thinks. Actually, well. Huh. He’s never really noticed before but—oh, _okay._

John’s already pulled his shirt over his head and he’s completely bare-chested if you’re not counting the blanket of hair that trails down his stomach and disappears into his jeans. The hair on his head is messy, sticking up in errant and aimless directions; his glasses sitting crooked on his nose from shucking off his clothes; his grin stretched wide, showcasing his overbite in a way that Dirk can only describe as _endearing._

Dirk’s mouth goes dry. Fuck. Okay, yeah. He’s hot.

He’s so goddamn hot.

It’s only after John is absent for a couple of minutes that Dirk realizes he even left. His heart is too busy pounding in his ears. His chest feels so tight it might rupture and cause all his thoughts and feelings to tumble and spill out all over the floor and then John will have to mop him up because he’ll be thoroughly incapacitated, and John fucking sucks at mopping.

A sound at the end of the couch jostles Dirk back to reality.

“You should probably take your pants off,” John comments. He’s holding a shiny foil packet and bottle of lube and looks way too amused. His shorts are already unbuttoned, exposing even more of the happy trail that dips beneath his boxers.

If Dirk squints, he can see the outline of his cock.

There are about five million reasons why they shouldn’t be doing this. Dirk can list them off alphabetically. His hands don’t receive the memo and he moves on autopilot to unbutton his pants and shove them to his kneecaps. John takes it from there, tugging them the rest of the way off and tossing them just as carelessly as he’d tossed his shirt.

Dirk has a moment of clarity when John gets a hand on the waistband of his neon briefs. He grabs him by the wrists and stops him, ignoring the way his heart thumps at the bewildered look he gets in return.

Dirk swallows. “Have you ever done this?”

“Gee, Dirk,” John says, all faux offense. Maybe real offense. It’s hard to tell with him sometimes. “I’m not some blushing virgin! I’ve done anal before.”

Dirk squeezes his eyes shut and groans.

“But I guess, no. Not with a guy,” he continues, “I’m straight, remember?”

“How could you let me forget? Yeah, mechanics are basically the same. Just use your fingers first.” Dirk lets his eyes drop to the front of John’s open fly where the soft line of his cock has definitely gone a little rigid. It’s hard to determine the exact specs yet, but something tells him that he won’t be disappointed. “A healthy portion of lube too.”

John rolls his eyes and leans back on his knees, popping open the cap and doing as instructed. “I’m not doing this because you told me to, by the way,” he replies hastily—because apparently, on top of _straight_ and _Sasquatch enthusiast_ , Dirk can add _mind reader_. “I’m doing this because I know how to fuck.”

The speed in which his dick jumps to life at that is almost embarrassing. John sees and he lets Dirk know it with a smug smile, the absolute bastard. John hooks his dry fingers beneath Dirk’s waistband and _snaps_.

“Hey,” Dirk hisses. The sting doesn’t hurt, but it _does_ turn him on, and that’s just as bad. John can fuck him, but that doesn’t mean he has to know all his dirty secrets.

“C’mon, man. Take them off,” John whines. “Let’s do this. Let’s find out if you’re a bottom!”

A practiced poker face and set of pointy shades hide Dirk’s scrutiny. Why the hell does John sound so genuinely excited? Maybe he’s more drunk off a couple of beers than Dirk originally suspected. A light buzz, maybe, but would a sober John be looking at him like that?

Probably not.

“Fine,” Dirk huffs and shimmies out of his briefs, ignoring the flush that rises to his skin when he’s exposed, hard and already leaking, for John’s gaze. He talks to fill the silence and balance out the awkwardness settling in his gut. “You don’t have to do this you know. I’m not a heinous beast, John. I can find someone who wants to fuck me. It doesn’t have to be— _ahhh._ Okay, _shit._ ”

It’s not the first time he’s had a finger in him. Usually his own, which are considerably thinner and bonier, if not a little longer too. His breath gets knocked from his chest all the same. Dirk clenches his teeth and leans up on his elbows to look down at his thighs and where John is positioned between them, an awed sort of expression on his face.

“That okay?” John asks. With his other hand, he strokes up and down the flank of Dirk’s thigh like he’s trying to soothe a frightened deer and Dirk _hates_ it.

He hates it because he doesn’t hate it at all, but what he needs is not for John to be gentle with him. Tenderness will only confuse that touch-starved and needy portion of his brain and he knows it. That’s the last thing he needs from this.

“Yeah,” Dirk breathes out. “Feels fine.”

John crooks his finger just right and his smile turns from soft to something else when Dirk’s hand involuntarily flies out to grip the cushion. “Just fine?”

_Asshole._

Dirk doesn’t dignify that with a response, and John keeps any remaining cheeky remarks to himself while he opens him up. John wasn’t bluffing when he said he knew how to do this. He’s slow when he needs to be but doesn’t treat him like he’s made of glass. He’s good at it. He’s _so_ good—and Dirk rocks down to meet three fingers, unable to hold back the choked-out noises that every stretch they give him.

If it weren’t for John fumbling and tearing the foil packet with his teeth, Dirk probably would have complained when his fingers slip out and squeeze at his shaking knee.

“You sure?” John asks. One last chance for Dirk to change his mind. He reaches into his boxers and pulls himself out, rolling on the condom, and Dirk’s mouth goes dry for the umpteenth time.

Dirk’s seen bigger, but John’s still well above average. Definitely thicker. All-in-all, it’s a nice-looking dick, and there’s no doubt in his mind that John was telling the truth when he claimed he knew how to use it. Jesus Christ.

Wordlessly, Dirk hooks a leg around his waist, inching John closer until he falls forward, hands landing against the cushion on either side of Dirk’s head. The rubbery slide of lubed-up latex drags across his inner thigh and he shivers, nodding. That better be permission enough because Dirk happens to have just enough dignity left to stop him from _begging_ John Egbert to fuck him, but not much more.

No matter how bad he currently wants it.

John shifts and stands. Wait. Dirk has about five seconds to wonder why before he kneels on the floor and motions to the space in front of him.

Okay, never mind. He can work with that. Dirk raises an eyebrow and slides from the couch to join him on the carpet. If Egbert wants rug burn on his knees, that’s his prerogative. At least this gives them more room—and if John plans on fucking him properly, they’ll need a little more space than a cramped couch.

Holy shit. They’re really doing this.

It’s not until he’s getting back into position that he realizes that John probably doesn’t want to face him while he does this. Harder to close his eyes and think of—whatever the fuck it is that straight guys think of.

“How do you want me?” Dirk asks, trying not to cringe at his choice of words. He reminds himself that John doesn’t really want him at all—this is all just…what? A helping-hand scenario?

When did his life become a bad gay-for-pay Brazzers porno?

John blinks and stays quiet, then reaches out and pushes lightly at the center of his chest. Dirk goes with the motion, falling back on the carpet, making a surprised noise when he’s dragged forward by the hips until their flush together. Alright then. That answers that.

“Like this,” John says quietly. There’s a furrow to his brow as he chews on his lip, looking down Dirk like he’s trying to solve the world’s most complicated game of jigsaw. “You ready?”

Dirk rolls his eyes to make up for the fact his full body shivers at the sight of John kneeling between his legs, guiding himself to nudge against him. Without prompting, he drizzles another dose of lube on his dick and slicks himself up, rubbing up against Dirk where he’s stretched and opened. They both suck in a sharp breath, and John lifts his gaze, the unanswered question still lingering in the air. The last barrier.

“Yeah,” Dirk says. It comes out hoarse and unsteady. “Yeah, go ahead.”

Holy shit. _They’re really doing this._

John pushes in slowly, doesn’t wait around for uncertainty to rear its head. For all their prep, it takes some work. He inches in carefully and Dirk breathes through his nose, taking every fraction that he’s given. There’s nothing to hold onto while lying on the ground so he scrambles to grip at the carpet, too short for his stubby nails to fully grasp.

“Oh, _fuck_ ,” John hisses. He drops his head, panting, and pistons his hips a little harder until he’s completely bottomed out. _“Shit.”_

There’s a brief moment where Dirk thinks— _maybe I don’t like bottoming, maybe this isn’t for me._

The burn between his legs isn’t excruciating, but it’s not exactly comfortable either. It’s just a lot, almost overwhelming to feel so full, and the only thing that grounds him are John’s hands on his hips, his thumbs rubbing circles at the dip. It feels good, calming the rhythmic race in his chest. He cracks open his eyes, and the look on John’s face makes him reassess everything.

No. This is great. This might just be the best fucking thing to ever happen to him because watching John’s shoulders shake and his fingers dig into the soft meat of his thighs where he holds him open—that’s it. That’s the good stuff. John looks fucking wrecked, and to think that _he’s_ causing that sends Dirk to another plane of existence.

“C’mon,” Dirk grunts, “I’m not gonna break.”

He could though. He could splinter into a million pieces and be completely cool with it as long as John fucked them all.

He starts slow, a tantalizing drag out that has Dirk drawing in a breath and holding it. He lets it out on the hard thrust back in. John’s getting his leverage, letting them both adjust. He does it again, and again, and again, picking up the pace until the slide is easy and every slap is wet and loud, and Dirk is left feeling very thankful that Dave moved out months ago because he’s _loud_.

He’s _so_ fucking loud and he can’t help it.

Every snap of John’s hips has his vision blurry at the edges, and when he squeezes his eyes shut, he sees stars. Not just stars—he’s seeing planets, entire fucking solar systems, and galaxies. It’s a goddamn space-themed laser light show behind his eyelids.

John’s on his knees, hands on Dirk’s thighs to hold him open and in place while he drives in. He looks so hot, literally and figuratively. There’s a bead of sweat rolling down his temple and his glasses are slipping halfway down his nose. Dirk reaches up and knocks them off, sliding them somewhere under the coffee table. John grunts either a noise of gratitude or frustration, it’s a toss-up and Dirk doesn’t give a shit which because resting his hands against John’s chest, scratching at the wiry hair, is a much better subject for his attention.

“Dirk, _shit_ —” John releases the death grip on his thighs, there will be bruises tomorrow, and drops down to his elbows, pressing his entire body against Dirk. “You feel so _good_.”

Dirk makes a choked sound, crossing between a whine and a sob. He tries to return the sentiment, but he can’t form a coherent syllable, much less tell John how he’s feeling. Frustrating, to say the least, Dirk’s damn good at praise when he’s on the other end of things. When he opens his mouth to try, it’s just another broken moan. He slaps his hand over his mouth to muffle it.

“No,” John says. He’s so close now. Dirk can feel his breath against his lips, can smell the sour hint of cheap beer. John paws at his wrist. “Let me hear it.”

Dirk lowers his hand and takes in a shuddering breath. The thrusts have dwindled from hard, punishing snaps to slow, easy rolls of John’s hips. He shifts, adjusts his angle, searching for the spot that makes Dirk tense up, the spot that makes him whimper and grabs at John’s shoulders, sinking his nails into the sweat-slick skin. The spot that makes him shake and pant.

John finds that spot and he drives home. Hard.

“Fuck,” Dirk hisses. Finally, a real word. “ _Fuck, fuck, fuck_ —”

He’s hurtling toward the finish line, and he hasn’t even touched himself yet. John’s stomach provides excellent friction, his cock trapped between in and his own, sliding with sweat and an embarrassing amount of precome. He hopes, distantly, that John doesn’t realize just how goddamn wet he is for him.

John’s lips are right there, so absurdly close, and Dirk wants nothing more to be kissed stupid while being _fucked_ stupid. But that’s a line he’s not prepared to cross because, while John might be balls-deep and grinding against him like he was made for it, kissing is a touch too intimate. Never mind that there’s a part of Dirk that craves that intimacy. A part of him that craves the feeling of John’s mouth on his, moving with the rest of him. A part that leaves him wondering what it might feel like to have his tongue working in tandem with his cock. He bets it’s just as thick as the rest of him. Fingers, thighs, chest— _all_ of him. Probably kisses just as good as he fucks.

Oh, god. He’s going to come. He’s going to come imagining John kissing him and if that’s not the most depraved, fucked-up thing he’s ever done, Dirk’s not sure.

Pleasure coils tight in the pit of his stomach and he feels himself start to tip toward the edge, he tries to warn John but gets as far as opening his mouth before John’s dipping down and smashing their lips together, confirming all of Dirk’s previous debased fantasies. He doesn’t even have to work for it, Dirk opens up with a needy moan and lets him lick straight into his mouth and it’s over.

He’s done for.

John breaks the kiss long enough to lean up and look between them at the mess that Dirk’s left on both of their stomachs. He sucks in a sharp gasp. "That's so hot."

Dirk’s stomach flips, all the remaining cells in his brain scrambling in a confused panic trying to make sense of what that means. What’s hot? The fact that he came relatively untouched? Or—just the simple fact that he made him come in the first place?

“Yeah,” he says quietly.

John’s eyes flicker back up to his face and woah—it’s like he’s seeing the blue in his eyes for the first time in full clarity. No. He _is_ , Dirk realizes, vision no longer obstructed by the tint of his shades. Huh, wonder when he lost them.

They lay there for a moment, both breathing ragged and hard, just looking at each other—John still hard as a rock and buried to the hilt and Dirk softening and oversensitive. It might be more intimate than the kiss. John moves back like he’s going to pull out, but Dirk stops him with a hand on his ass, digging his fingers in and drawing him back down.

“Keep going,” he tells him through gritted teeth. “Keep going. I can take it.”

He’s pretty sure he can take it, at least. It’s more about him not wanting this to end.

John takes his word for it, doesn’t bother with a back-and-forth on whether or not Dirk’s sure, just surges down and kisses him again, making a feral, animalistic sound against his mouth. He drags his tongue along the seam of Dirk’s lips and bites with blunt teeth, diving back in when they part in a gasp.

Fuck. _That’s_ hot.

 _He’s_ hot.

The severity and reality of the situation hits Dirk all at once. Oh, this is going to be a problem.

But that problem is for tomorrow’s Dirk because right now John is kissing him within an inch of his life, hands against either side of his face to hold him still, and it feels great. Each roll of John’s hips gets more erratic, more desperate, and one hand slides off Dirk’s cheek to tangle in his hair and twist. Between kisses and bites, he mumbles that he’s going to come right against Dirk’s open, panting mouth.

One last slam in and his hips stutter to a stop, and Dirk wishes, for a moment, that he could feel it without the barrier of latex. Maybe if he stripped it off and came on his thighs instead. He’d say next time but, _well_.

John lifts himself with shaky arms, peeling their bodies from each other. The evidence of Dirk’s orgasm is drying in dark hair dusting John’s stomach, his face red and sweaty and sans glasses, all with the worst case of sex-hair that Dirk’s ever seen. A hot mess, emphasis on hot. He stays in that position, hovering like he’s about to do a push-up, and gazes down with a goofy, adoring expression that makes Dirk feel defenseless.

“Woah,” he laughs lightly.

Dirk swallows the lump in his throat. “Yeah.”

John’s easy smile spreads into an over-enthusiastic grin and he stands up with a soft groan. He offers his hand but Dirk waves him off, content to lay and stare at the ceiling a little longer, or maybe forever. It doesn’t seem to bother him in the slightest, and Dirk watches as ties off the condom and tucks himself back in his briefs, shaking his leg to rid himself of the shorts that never made it completely off his body.

He looks so…unaffected.

John picks up his shirt and wipes his stomach and Dirk makes a face. “Gross.”

“What?”

“The kitchen is right there. You could get a towel,” Dirk says pointedly. “You could get _me_ a towel.”

John snorts and tosses him the shirt-turned-come-rag. “There!”

Dirk pretends to gag but uses it anyway. He’s a guy. Not his first rodeo with an impromptu clean-up. Plus, he’s mostly dry anyway and not much is gonna come off without a shower. Doesn’t mean he can’t still complain. “This is why I don’t fuck straight guys.”

John pauses. “Who said I was straight?”

Oh, fuck Dirk’s heart for skipping a beat. He scrubs at his skin a little harder than necessary. “You did,” he mumbles. “Multiple times.”

“Yeah, I know,” John says with another laugh. He plops down on the couch in just his boxers and nudges Dirk’s leg with his foot. “I’m joking.”

Right. A joke. It’s all so funny, isn’t it? Just a real knee-slapper of a situation here.

“Have I ever told you that you suck at jokes, Egbert?”

John laughs again. It’d be great if he stopped doing that, every hearty chuckle is another nail in Dirk’s coffin. “Yeah. Multiple times.”

Dirk lets out a huff of annoyance and tucks himself away. He pulls up his pants too because he’s feeling a little exposed with so much skin on display. At least he’s still got his shirt on, which he tugs down for good measure. John watches him with a raised eyebrow, and Dirk reaches under the coffee table for his glasses so that he can escape the scrutiny. He hands them off and finds his own somewhere above the imprint of his head in the carpet.

John taps his fingers against his kneecap. “So, how was it?”

“Christ, John,” Dirk groans. Frustration bubbles to the surface and gnaws at him. He’s flustered and he’s not a fan. “On which grading scale would you like your assessment? Are we talking standard high school rubric, or should we go straight for the Ivy League?”

“You think my dick is Ivy League?” John wiggles his eyebrows and Dirk shoots him a murderous glare. “Okay, okay. Sheesh. I just mean, do you think you’re a bottom now or what?”

“Not how it works. It’s not that black and white. But if you’re asking if I’d do it again,” Dirk stops and holds his tongue between his teeth. Probably best he doesn’t jack up John’s, frankly unsettlingly, large ego any more than necessary with the fact he’s already itching for round two. “Yeah, sure.”

John leans forward, eyes wide. “You would?”

“If the opportunity arose,” Dirk says with a shrug. “I’m sure I could find someone willing to plow me into next week at the bar.”

Something unreadable passes over John’s face but then scratches at the back of his neck and laughs, though it sounds a degree less humorous than its predecessors. “Sure thing. I’ll be your wingman.”

Dirk allows himself to smile, drawing his knees to his chest and resting his chin in the dip. “You’re a terrible wingman. I think I’ll manage fine.”

Another nervous laugh. What’s _with_ him? Probably the realization that he just fucked his roommate into the carpet settling in nice and cozy in his heterosexual brain. Right. This—they should probably talk about this. Preferably when he can’t still feel the lingering sensation of John being inside him.

Tomorrow.

“I’m going to shower and head to bed,” Dirk tells him. When he stands, John stands too. Uncomfortably close and still mostly naked. “That wasn’t an invitation.”

Finally, John looks flustered, his tanned cheeks warming to a rosy pink. He stutters on the beginning of a sentence and backs away. “I know. I’m just, I’m heading to bed too. I’ll shower in the morning. Not that you need a play-by-play of my schedule or anything.”

Oh, that’s cute. Shit. No.

“Are you sure you don’t want to tell me what you plan on havin’ for breakfast?”

John smiles and shifts on his feet. “I was thinking about pancakes.”

“Eggs and bacon too?”

“Yeah, the full spread,” he says, beaming. “Want me to wake you up?”

Something in Dirk’s chest lurches unpleasantly, and it’s only unpleasant because it’s so incredibly _pleasant_ that his psyche wants to immediately reject it. Butterflies, some would probably call it. Not him. All he knows is that he wants to reach out a touch John, maybe kiss him—but that’s not what they are and that’s not who John is.

He settles for a tap of knuckles against John’s shoulder and tries not to cringe. “Yeah, bro. You better.”

_Bro._

Fuck. He’s _so_ screwed.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> time for some john POV. featuring miscommunication as a plot device, idiots, and buffkat.

Okay, so maybe he’s not exactly straight.

John spends the next couple days in a panic, avoiding Dirk, pacing around his room, opening up incognito web browsers and hen-pecking in his google searches on human sexuality. The results are interesting and expansive, and he spends the following nights holed up under his blanket, thumbing through wiki pages and taking one-too-many Buzzfeed _“Am I Gay?”_ quizzes.

That wouldn’t be so wild, right? That’s a perfectly normal realization to have in your mid-twenties! Dave did it—but maybe he isn’t the best example. John’s pretty sure that Dave harbored a big, fat gay crush on him growing up. In fact, he knows it. Dave may think he has the Strider stoicism down, but he’s easier to read than a picture book.

Dirk isn’t like that. Dirk is a dusty tome on some wizard’s shelf that’s scribed completely in a dead language. John doesn’t even have the base stats to roll for something like that. 

So, he resorts to the only form of “dealing with it” that he knows and turns it all into a joke. Dirk laughs at first, ribs him back, and scoffs. It feels familiar. But then, the laughs start getting a little more forced, start happening a little less, until they’re all replaced with a stone face and angry furrow of his eyebrows.

And John still can’t stop.

It’s like he’s having an out-of-body experience every time he opens his mouth around Dirk. He tries to stop himself, he really does, but the words just fall out. Every encounter is a slow-motion train wreck and he’s strapped to a chair, eyes peeled back so that he’s forced to watch without being able to do anything about it, Clockwork Orange style. God, what a shitty fucking movie.

“You good, man?”

John slams his laptop closed and whirls around in his computer chair, heart racing. Dirk’s leaning against his doorframe, arms crossed, a barely-there smile on his face. “What?”

“I asked if you wanted me to pick you up anything from the corner store, but you’ve been staring at your computer for five minutes.” He drops his head low enough to look over the rim of his shades. “My bad if I interrupted your jerk-off session. Maybe next time don’t leave your door wide open.”

John sputters. “You didn’t! I wasn’t—” He can’t tell him that he was zoning-out, reading a baffling article on the differences between bisexuality and pansexuality that might be a little too complex for his current level of understanding.

“Sure.”

Deflect, Egbert, deflect.

John wiggles his eyebrows and grins. “Don’t act like you wouldn’t have been into it.”

Nailed it.

“Okay,” Dirk says, completely monotone. “So, do you want anything or not? It’s getting late.”

Alright, maybe he didn’t nail it. John deflates with a sigh, spinning back around to face his desk. He can feel Dirk’s eyes burning into the back of his head. “Nah, I’m good. Thanks though.”

The only thing he hears is Dirk’s retreating footsteps and the front door. John buries his head in his hands and sighs again, for what’s probably the millionth time the past week. Sighing. That’s all he does anymore—the whole fucking thing just has him feeling defeated. It’s like he can’t win.

And what’s the prize? Dirk?

He’s not—okay, he’s gotta stop saying he’s not gay. That’s clearly not the case anymore, or maybe it never was. Straight guys don’t kiss their male roommates, they don’t fuck them, and they certainly don’t think about doing it all again every waking moment after. Recently, he’s learned about the Kinsey scale and he figures he falls somewhere in the middle, maybe leaning a little closer to the hetero side of things. He can do that, right?

Man, this shit is confusing.

All John knows is that he wants to kiss Dirk again, and he can’t talk to anyone about it. Dave? Hah. Absolutely not. He can’t just tell his best friend that he fucked his brother and that he thinks he might want to do it again—and he _really_ can’t tell Dave that he might want to take Dirk to dinner and a movie.

Out of the question.

Jade? The last thing that he wants to do is have this conversation with his sister. For that reason, Jane and Jake are ruled out too by familial default. Not to mention, he loves his family, but none of them would be particularly good at helping him with this. Jake, especially.

Roxy? Maybe. But it’s weird to ask your ex for relationship advice, right? They’re friends but—No. He can’t.

Rose? No, and that’s all there is to say on that. He can practically imagine the palatable delight she’d exude upon hearing he maybe wasn’t entirely straight.

That leaves Dirk.

Which means, he has no options.

John slams his head against his closed laptop and groans. A part of him knew this was going to happen, deep down. The bond he shares with Dirk has always been—god, at risk of sounding cliché—special. Dirk has seen him at his worst and helped get him to his best. He’s understanding when John needs space to deal with his head shit, and he’s there to watch a movie or play a game when space is the last thing he needs.

Other than Dave, who would go apeshit if he was ever dethroned from the title, Dirk is his best friend.

And if he doesn’t figure his shit out, John knows he’s going to ruin it.

He sits back up and opens his laptop, clicking out of the window and opening another, poising his hands over the keyboard with a determined frown. Google. He means to go to Google. Where he ends up, however, is Dirk’s Facebook page, clicking through the pictures in his photo album.

There’s one of him posing with a dumb, fake samurai sword—John snorts. He took that in their living room before Dave moved out, back when Dirk slept on the couch. It still hangs on the wall even though John hates it with a burning passion, but Dirk lets him keep up his framed and autographed National Treasure poster, so he supposes he can call it even.

There’s one at Dave’s birthday party last year, one arm slung over Dave’s shoulder, the other around John. The picture is dark, they’re all backlit by the neon lights of the club. Dirk’s looking at John, smiling.

There’s one of just John, huddled up under a pile of blankets on the couch. It’s blurry, the only thing in focus is his hand jutting up from the cocoon, middle finger extended.

A mirror selfie.

A picture without his glasses, and that’s only because Roxy is pushed up beside him, wearing them.

John loses time like that, just looking through Dirk’s pictures like a total creep. He’s just trying to figure it all out; he’s just trying to pinpoint when things got so rattled in his brain and his heart that he jumped on the first opportunity to sleep with Dirk. And, in his search, one thing strikes him as interesting: _They’re always looking at each other._

Not always simultaneously—sometimes it’s Dirk looking while John’s occupied, sometimes it’s vice versa.

Regardless, it makes him swallow hard and quickly exit the window. John takes in a deep breath and slowly shuts his laptop with a click. “Oh, shit.”

He—he might. Oh, fuck.

Does he…?

From outside his room, the lock rattles and John hears a loud medley of crinkling bags, scuffling feet, and frustrated grunts, followed by the heavy slam out the door. John’s up and out of his chair before Dirk can call and ask him for help. He skids into the hallway, practically swinging around the corner to their small kitchen where Dirk’s bogged down with bags.

“Need some help?”

“I got it,” Dirk says, pausing and looking over the edge of his shades. The brief glimpse of his amber eyes sends a shiver down John’s spine. “Why so helpful all of a sudden, Egbert?”

“Can’t a guy be a good roommate?”

Dirk snorts and sits the bags on the counter, glancing at the sink stacked with one-too-many dishes. “Yeah, sure. Why don’t you do the dishes for once?”

John recognizes immediately the playful tone. It’s hard to distinguish sometimes, you have to have an ear for it—but Dirk is teasing him and that’s good. Alright. Back on track. He can do this. Leaning against the counter, John shoots him a flirty smile—or, what he hopes is flirty. Whatever, that’s not really his area of expertise. Dirk gives him a double-take though, so it must work to some degree.

“I shouldn’t have to do them,” John says, “I think you owe me.”

Okay. Not the words he meant to say. What the fuck, brain?

He doesn’t need x-ray vision to know Dirk’s blinking behind his shades. “I owe you?”

Oh god, this train is chugging full-stop with no breaks straight into a pile of wreckage. Some dastardly villain with a bowler hat and mustache has tampered with the engine and he can’t stop. And it’s him, he’s the dastardly villain. Shit.

“You know! After I got you off— _mmmmfph_!” There’s a dishrag shoved directly against his mouth. John tries weakly to fight him off, but it ends up a pathetic excuse to touch his arms.

“Don’t finish that sentence.”

The rag drops and John finishes the sentence. “I got you off _so_ hard!”

Dirk stares at him for a moment, mouth slack and silent. There is a period where John feels like he might be able to salvage it all if he can just open his mouth and tell Dirk how he really feels. Maybe he doesn’t know for sure what that is, but he knows it isn’t this. He knows it isn’t the high school bully teasing schtick he’s doing. Maybe if he just reaches out—

John raises his hand and it hovers mid-air, static in its make for Dirk’s cheek.

Dirk shoves past him. “Shut the fuck up. Seriously. I’m done playing.”

Because it’s already been thoroughly established that he doesn’t know when to quit, John follows him like an annoying puppy, hot on his heels. Nipping and yapping—and if he’s not careful, Dirk might hit him, and John can’t even pretend that he wouldn’t deserve it.

“You should have seen the look on your—” It’s not a rag slapped against his face this time, but a warm hand clamped tightly around his mouth. Dirk slams him against the wall hard enough to hurt, pinning him there with his weight. He’s smaller in bulk, but taller and still _strong_ , and John feels every ounce of it.

Dirk’s glasses have slipped from the bridge of his nose, and John can see the raw anger in his eyes. His fingers tighten and pinch into his jaw almost painfully. “It’s not funny anymore.”

John nods helplessly because if Dirk doesn’t get off of him there is going to be a very awkward situation below his belt.

“You done?”

John nods again, breathing heavily through his nose, taking in the leathered scent of Dirk’s fingerless gloves. It makes him go dizzy, and Dirk presses his mouth into a fine, thin line and flexes his grip but doesn’t move. There’s a knee half-wedged between his thighs and John is petrified to move and coax it closer. So, he stays plastered against the wall, frozen, and waits for Dirk to sigh and drop his hand. 

“That felt—” John starts, but Dirk whips around and stops him with a finger jabbed right in his face.

“Go ahead. Say something stupid about dynamics you don’t understand.”

John closes his mouth and Dirk looks almost disappointed.

“Jesus Christ.” Dirk runs a hand through his hair. “You’re impossible.”

“It’s just a joke,” John says. He instantly regrets it, the moment it’s out of his mouth. He wishes he could grab all his stupid, dumb words and shove them back in his mouth and swallow them. But he can’t, and they’re out there, hanging in the open, and Dirk looks fucking crestfallen.

He doesn’t say anything, just shoves past him grabs his jacket off the coat rack and slips it on.

“Where are you going?”

“Out.”

Good idea. They need a change of scenery. Maybe if he gets a drink or two in him, he’ll have enough liquid courage to look Dirk in his handsome face and not say something completely stupid. He might even be able to say something meaningful. Confess that he’s really gone on him, like really gone.

John grabs his jacket and gets one arm through the sleeve before he grinds to halt under Dirk’s blank expression. He’s got his shades pushed up in his hair, acting as a makeshift headband, and he’s staring at him with the most scrutinizing look John’s ever seen. It makes him want to march over and push the frames back down. Too much exposure to Dirk’s unfiltered glare is bad for his health.

“What are you doing?” Dirk finally asks.

“Putting on my jacket?”

“I see that. Why?”

John huffs a nervous laugh. “I haven’t been out in a while. I’m coming with you.”

He tries to walk to the front door and Dirk stops him with a hand on his chest. “No, you’re not. It’s not that kinda goin’ out that I’m doing.” Dirk gives it a moment to sink in, waits until John blinks and sputters before he continues. “Don’t wait up. I’ll have company.”

“Oh,” John says lamely, his heart currently residing somewhere in the pit of his stomach. “Okay. Are you sure?”

Dirk drops his hand and John immediately misses the warmth. He has to full-on stop himself from grabbing his hand and putting it back. There’s a pretty vivid memory in the back of his head reminding him of how perfectly it fit there. He doesn’t, though. Because two things are obvious.

One, he’s a fucking dumbass.

Two, Dirk never wanted him in that way.

After a moment, Dirk tears his gaze away and backs up toward the door. “Yeah. Congratulations, Egbert. You showed me that I liked getting fucked. Thanks for that. Now I’m going to go find someone to do it.”

He doesn’t stop him from leaving, part of him thinks that maybe he should. But the door slams and the echo rings through the empty apartment and rattles around in John’s skull. He feels like his guts are tied up in all kinds of knots. Intricate ones that are so impressive, he just earned his Boy Scout badge for knot tying.

John stands there for a few minutes, staring at the door, half-hoping Dirk will walk back through and laugh. He doesn’t—just like he didn’t stop him, Dirk doesn’t come back.

Okay, he’s gotta pony up. John rolls up his metaphorical sleeves while also rolling up his physical ones. He puts the groceries away, still left on the counter, and then rinses all the dishes and loads up the dishwasher. He tidies the living room, even pulls out the vacuum, and lights a candle. It’s the one that John had bought as a gag gift for Dirk a couple of months back when he was complaining about being homesick for Texas. One of those three-wick candles with the silhouette of a state slapped on the packaging for novelty. He’d thought, at the time, it would smell like a barbeque or something equally stereotypical, but it actually smells like leather and pine, and now they both light it unironically.

John sits on the couch, looking around the very clean apartment, twiddles his thumbs, and waits.

It’s not until his phone reads thirty minutes past midnight that he gives up. John opens his messages and scrolls through his conversation with Dirk, still sans response. He types out one more, asking when he’ll be home, and pockets it. He blows out the candle on the coffee table, makes sure the door is locked, presses his ear to it and listens for footsteps, doesn’t hear shit, and heads to his bedroom.

In all his wallowing, at least he’s made up his mind. The moment Dirk is home he’s gonna do it.

He’s gonna tell him the truth and if Dirk wants to move out if it’s too weird, he gets it. But there’s still a tiny spark of hope in his chest that feels like—it just feels like maybe Dirk feels the same.

The front door rattles while he’s only one foot deep in his pajama pants. Instead of pulling them on, he just shakes them off because that seems more convenient. Dirk’s seen him in his boxers before plenty of times.

He gets about as far as creaking open his bedroom door when he hears it. Dirk’s drunken laugh, followed by a scratchy, husky voice that John doesn’t recognize. John pulls back and peers through the crack in the door. He can barely make out anything in the dark and at the angle that he’s provided. Fuck. He was really hoping to call Dirk’s bluff on finding a hook-up, but that’s definitely two silhouettes he sees.

One _very_ big silhouette—around the same height as Dirk, maybe a little taller, but broad as hell.

“Nice place,” the guy says. “Clean.”

It’s harder to understand what Dirk says in response because he’s a gentleman and not yelling at the top of his lungs like his conquest seems set on doing. But John’s pretty sure he hears “ _asshole roommate_ ” and that’s enough. He shuts the door and drops his forehead against the frame.

Then he does it over again just for the sake of hurting, a quiet thud, thud, thud against the wood.

He’s so fucking stupid.

John lingers at his door a little too long. On the other side of the threshold, he hears them shuffling down the hall, whispered, tipsy laughter that makes his stomach do somersaults. Then he hears something that’s definitely not laughter and it sounds like it’s coming right beyond the wall. The moan is familiar, the accompanying growl is not.

Oh, shit.

He needs to grab his headphones and get in bed. They’ve played this tango before. It’s courtesy. But John stays frozen, ear pressed against his door, listening to Dirk’s muffled, breathy moans.

“Where’s your room?”

“Not— _ahhh_ —not this one. Over there. This is my roommate’s—”

“Fuck that guy,” the stranger growls and Dirk laughs.

John bites his lip, eyebrows furrowed and pushes himself away, pacing back and forth with his hands in his hair. There’s a marginal window of relief when he hears Dirk’s door slam, but it’s quickly stamped out by a loud thump. He hopes that jerk stripped and fell over one of Dirk’s shitty swords, but when he hears it again, his face goes hot.

Okay, is this how he’s gonna play? That’s dirty, Strider. That’s really dirty. He’s never been this inconsiderate or loud before. Every time he’s brought someone home, John’s barely heard a peep. It was just an unspoken rule they shared. John did the same for him. Admittedly, his own hook-ups happen a lot less frequently, but he’s always extended to polite respect to keep things quieter.

Not tonight.

John lays on top of the covers, staring straight up at his ceiling, and listens to Dirk get pounded into next week by a dude taller, buffer, and clearly more experienced than him. Seriously. They’re going to put a hole in the wall with the headboard if they don’t calm the fuck down.

It’s horrible, it’s nauseating, and it hurts—and yet, John’s dick is at full attention, tented in his boxers. He keeps his hands pressed down against the mattress at his sides to stop himself from touching it. He will not get off to the sound of Dirk getting fucked across the hall.

He will _not_.

In the end, he does, angrily stroking himself with his hand shoved under his waistband. It’s quick, dirty, and he doesn’t even bother to clean up. He just rolls over and shoves the pillow over his head, trying to block out the sound. They’ll probably be getting a strongly worded letter placed in their mailbox. Hopefully, Dirk’s spite-fuck is worth it.

Kinda sounds like it is.

The ache in his chest keeps him up far longer than anything else.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oops, did we up the chapter count? we sure did. i can't believe i thought this was going to be cut and dry. hahaha. i'll literally never learn my lesson. anyway, have some half-boiled crackpot plan devised between two idiots. welcome to the world's worst romcom.
> 
> also, a little fact about me, i love troll/human society and i hope ya'll didn't think i was bluffing with that tag. no, i won't elaborate. just know this is a world where they co-exist. maybe a different set of kids played sburb. maybe aliens just came down and said, we are gonna live here and everyone said "yah, okay ur kinda hot. that's fine". it's up to you.

Dirk wakes with a pounding headache, a stiff back, and something heavy draped over his churning stomach. He lets all of the previous night’s regrets fester for a moment, does his best to collect his thoughts, and painfully cracks one eye open, groaning when he sees the gray arm across his midsection.

Oh, right. That’s why he doesn’t drink.

It comes flooding back to him in the same manner akin to someone going ham on the lever of a View Master. A sequence of distorted snapshots on the world’s most embarrassing image reel. Choppy and nauseating.

There was a fight with John. Ugh. The dull throb in his temple inconveniently triples at the mere _thought_ of John. Cheeky fucking bastard. Dirk pushes him away. Figuratively speaking.

Then there was the bar. That had been fun at least, for a little bit. Dirk knows he’s handsome, and he’s well-versed in playing his cards right. And establishments that cater to both humans and trolls have exactly the kind of reputation that Dirk had been looking for—filled to the brim with wayward souls searching for one thing and one thing only. Trolls are notoriously horny and, it just so happens, so is he.

It’s just—well. Typically, they’re the more of the love ‘em and leave ‘em type in his experience.

So, he can’t quite work out why there’s still a warm body pressed against his back, purring in his ear like a content cat. Figures he picked up a cuddler. Honestly, Dirk realizes he should have known, the dude had spent the entire ride back to the apartment arguing the semantics of quadrants with their Lyft driver.

Oh fuck. Is he in a _quadrant_ now?

Because another thing he remembers very vividly is _red_. Not that flushed shit either, not hearts or diamonds. Dirk recalls a bright red alien dick that rocked his world and then some. Hell, he probably rocked the neighbor’s world too. Karkat—right, that’s his name—had one hell of a voice box with a single setting. Loud.

There was no way that John hadn’t heard. Dirk may have purposely coerced an intensive make-out and heavy petting session outside his door. Keyword being _may_. Most of it’s still a blur. Regardless, it serves John right for the heap of bullshit that he’d forced him to put up with for weeks. All the jabbing, all the joking, all the laughing at his expense. Good. Dirk hopes it fucking eats at him.

That’s the problem though. He really hopes that it bothers John because the alternative is that he doesn’t care at all and that’s worse. That’s infinitely worse. The thought of John elbowing him in the side and giving him a thumbs up for the lay is so much more painful than the thought of him being angry or hurt.

Maybe that’s messed up. Probably is.

Definitely is.

But the ache in his chest just reminds him that he’s fucked, figuratively. And the ache below his waist reminds him that he’s been fucked, literally. Baseline—he’s fucked. Royally. In all the ways that one can be and none of the ways that he wants to be. That way being, John.

Carefully, Dirk attempts to lift the arm from his stomach but not only is Karkat built like a boulder, he apparently weighs as much as one too. That’s not even a slight on his physique either, just a troll thing, and part of the reason Dirk was so captivated with him to begin with. He’d looked like he could rip him half. When he moves, the pleasant pain in his backside serves as decent proof that he’d been right.

Thankfully, it doesn’t take him much effort to get Karkat to move because, once he’s been budged, Karkat rolls over on his back and mumbles something too heavy with sleep and irritation to be coherently understood. Dirk finally breathes easy.

Except this is the part he hates. He’s no good at the morning-after. Kinda was his entire problem with John.

“Morning,” Dirk says, voice cracking with the day’s first syllables. He sits up and runs a hand through his hair, glancing over to his company, who looks just as hungover as he feels. “Get enough beauty sleep, big guy?”

Karkat groans and drags his palms down his face, stopping to rub at his eyes and scrub a bit of drool off his cheek. That’s _gotta_ be drool. No way he was drunk enough to let that mouth full of teeth near his precious dick.

“Fuck off,” he says.

Right. Still as surly as Dirk remembers. It’s charming in a strange way. “I’ll pass. I need to— _fuck._ ” A sharp pain pierces right between his eyes. “I need some ibuprofen. Holy shit.”

“Yeah. I feel like I’ve been hit by a speeding dump truck, piloted by the imbecile ghosts of all my previous bad decisions.” Karkat drops his hands and looks up at Dirk with tired eyes. “Which is to say, I feel like fucking shit.”

“Yeah, no. I got that. Strangely specific analogy but one that I can relate to on a near cosmic level.”

Karkat laughs—or, well, he scoffs, but he’s smiling so Dirk chooses to interpret it as the former. He sits up, shifting the sheet around him in some bizarre attempt at modestly, like he didn’t just ram Dirk into next week just hours ago, choosing to rather demurely scratch at the back of his neck. He’s a big gray slab of premium troll beef, what business does he have acting _cute_?

“So,” Karkat says, coughing to clear his throat. Pointless endeavor seeing that he still sounds like he’s just deepthroated a roll of sandpaper. “Do you think it worked?”

Dirk slips off the bed and tries to pretend that he’s not immediately self-conscious over the fact that he’s completely in the buff. He roots around for his underwear and finds a pair of discarded sleep pants instead and pulls them on. “Do I think what worked?”

“Don’t be stupid. I’m asking if you think we made your roommate jealous, dipshit. That was the goal, right?”

Dirk shoots him a glare sharper than his namesake. “The goal was to get off. Which I did.” He looks to his dark gray sheets, unmistakably stained with slurry. Gross. “Looks like you did too. Consider the goal met.”

There isn’t a shred of amusement present on Karkat’s disgruntled face. Jesus Christ, did he just always look like that? Dirk had pegged it for some alpha male troll posturing at the club but no—his thick eyebrows are just perpetually furrowed; his dark lips turned downward in a frown, doing nothing to hide the row of sharp teeth biting at his bottom lip; his hair a nest of wild, dark hair, barely hiding two nubby horns.

And yet, all things considered, Dirk sort of just wants to hug him.

“I’m sorry. That’s not exactly what I remember,” Karkat says-shouts, quickly ruining the hazy illusion of adorable. “What I remember was a piss-ass drunk human hanging off my arm complaining about what a dick his roommate was.”

“Okay,” Dirk scoffs. “Your point? This isn’t like a—pitch thing, or whatever. I’m not trying to hate-fuck my roommate.”

“Of course not.” Oh, yeah. Dirk _doesn’t_ like that condescending tone at all, nor the smug look that follows. “I’m just saying, you were really torn up about him sleeping with you and then laughing about it. You kept going on and on about how you wanted to make him—and I am quoting you here, I’d never say something so goddamn stupid—” Karkat pitches his voice an octave higher, doing a crude impression of a southern drawl: “ _Rue the day he ever crossed you._ ”

Dirk winces. That, unfortunately, _does_ sound like something he would say. He folds his arms over his chest. “I don’t sound like that. Plus. Still sounds like you think I wanna pitch, _spades_ —whatever deck of cards romance shit you trolls abide by. And I already told you—”

“I’m not an expert in human romance—”

“Ah. So, you’re just a troll relationship therapist then?”

“Will you shut the fuck up for five seconds?” Karkat snaps. “Holy shit.”

Dirk closes his mouth and decides not to point out that’s basically the exact opposite of what he was told to do last night. It’s weird enough they’re arguing like they’ve known each other longer than twenty-four hours. Sure. Let him say what he needs to say. It will no doubt be mind-numbingly off-the-marker because there’s no way that he understands the delicate nature of his and John’s friendship. He barely understands it himself.

Karkat takes a deep breath and gestures loosely toward the hall. “You’re in love with him.”

Oh.

Okay. Huh.

“And,” he continues, softer, “I think it’s fairly obvious to everyone else. Except maybe to sober you, and probably not to him. I don’t know the guy, but he sounds like a fucking dumbass. _But_ I’m willing to bet that he cares about you, and I’m sure if he’d known about your real feelings, he wouldn’t have said the shit he did. You don’t really strike me as a bad person—”

“You don’t know me.”

Karkat rolls his eyes. “We all have our hang-ups, okay? I don’t think this John guy can be _that_ awful if you care about him this much.”

Dirk stands there dumbly, feeling exposed. His shades are sitting on the nightstand, almost mocking in nature. He half-considers making a dive for them and slamming back up his walls. Throw up his safety net. This stranger already knows more about him than he cares to admit. All from one conversation? He doesn’t remember a whole lot of talking back at the bar. Grinding and kissing, yeah, but not much talking outside of deciding whose apartment they were going to.

That he remembers, at least.

A long, drawn-out groan escapes him, and he buries his face in his hands to hide the shame and truth of it all. “You got all that from one conversation with me?”

“Yeah. I told you. I’m good.”

Fuck.

“Also,” Karkat goes on. Dirk lifts his head. “You didn’t shut up about it. Do you seriously not remember anything we talked about?”

Oh. Whew, okay. An odd relief settles over him. At least he doesn’t have a sign flashing above his head alerting everyone in a ten-mile radius that he’s hopelessly in love with his straight roommate. His _friend_ that he happened to let fuck him _._

Dirk shakes his head, pinching the bridge of his nose, refusing to look Karkat in the eyes. “No. Not really.”

“You practically talked about the guy right up until I stuck my bulge in you,” he explains. “Which, by the way, not that big of a turn on for most people.”

“But it is for you?”

“What?” Karkat sputters. “No! You’re just lucky I don’t find you horribly unattractive.”

Dirk hums, skeptical. “Then why’d you come back with me then? If I wouldn’t shut up about someone else?” Both his stomach and face fall simultaneously with a dawning realization. “Oh my god. Did you _pity_ fuck me?”

“I’ll have you know that pity-fucking means something entirely different in my culture. But no—you asked me for a favor, and it seemed like a pretty good deal from my end.”

Shit. Dirk reminds himself, once again, why he doesn’t drink. Apparently, he stumbles around town and makes bargains with trolls and seals the contract with slurry. He almost doesn’t want to ask.

Almost.

“What’s the favor?”

“Pretend to be interested in you to make Jeff—”

“John,” Dirk corrects, pointedly. He did that on purpose, he’s already used John’s name correctly once. Which. Did he tell Karkat his name? Shit. That means that maybe he really _did_ talk Karkat’s ear off about John at the bar.

“Whatever. You wanted to make him jealous and realize that he wants you too or is in love with you. Something, I don’t know. The original details are all lost on the account of drunk-you being wordy and pretentious.”

Dirk stares at him, long and hard. Finally, he can’t take it anymore. “That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.”

“It was your idea.”

“It’ll never work.”

Karkat holds up a clawed finger and jabs it in his direction. For the first time, the scowl fades, quickly replaced by sheer delight.

Hm. This looks like trouble.

“Actually, it’s not unsimilar to a novel I read once. Granted, that was a troll romance with a complicated auspistice situation dealing with some power imbalance due to the blood caste system—” He trails off the moment his eyes meet Dirk’s eyebrow, arched and poised to convey the deep sentiment of being thoroughly unimpressed. Karkat clears his throat. “The point is, there _is_ some merit behind the expression that you don’t know what you have until it’s gone.”

Dirk sighs for what has to be the hundredth time, massaging his brow bone with his index finger and thumb. It doesn’t lessen the headache and only makes him look and feel like a dramatic tool. “Let me get this straight. You’re only helping me so that you can live out your troll harlequin romance fantasies?”

“Actually,” Karkat says, taking in a deep breath. Dirk barely knows the guy, but he has a feeling he’s ramping up for another gusty rambling. He braces himself and watches Karkat stand up, the sheet falling from around him.

Huh. Usually, if Dirk’s looking at a naked troll, it’s during throes of heated, interspecies passion with all the wriggly goods on display. This is different. He’s never actually seen a troll—

“Hey, bulgeclown. Can you fucking not?”

Dirk averts his eyes, face heating. Damn, he misses his shades. Not that he particularly wants to ogle that Ken doll situation but being caught doing so is pretty fucking embarrassing. “What were you saying?”

Karkat doesn’t say anything. Dirk doesn’t know him all that well, but it feels uncharacteristic. From somewhere over in the corner of the room, he hears pants zip and soft grunts accompanied by rustling clothes. It’s not until Karkat’s there, right in his line of view, that Dirk allows himself to look again.

It’s not hard for him to figure out why he’d latched onto Karkat like a hungry, touch-starved leech. Disheveled and grumpy as he is, he’s almost pretty for a troll, despite how broad and sturdy he stands. Karkat narrows his eyes—red, like his brother’s, but wrapped in a golden sclera.

Distantly, Dirk wonders how well they’d get along. Karkat and Dave. He puts a pin in it. Something to think about later.

“Look, don’t laugh,” Karkat says seriously. Starting anything like that is usually a sure-fire tell that what is about to follow is certifiably ridiculous, but luckily, Dirk is a master of concealing emotion, so he nods in equal sincerity. “I’m a bit of a connoisseur when it comes to romantic entanglements of the humorous variety. Holy shit, I said _don’t_ laugh—”

“Man. Just say you watch a lot of romcoms.”

“Fine!” Karkat glowers, dark lips curling up to reveal more of those sharp teeth in a pointed snarl. If he’s trying to look threatening, it doesn’t work. “Do you want my help or not?”

Dirk looks to the door, still shut, and thinks of John on the other side, something like guilt bubbling in his stomach. John had cleaned. Thoroughly. That’d been pretty unlike him. Not he’s usually a messy person but it’d been pretty clear that it was done purposefully impress. The burnt-out scent of the Texas homesick candle still lingers in Dirk’s memory, how it’d punched him in the gut and made him homesick for something else. Something he’d never truly had to begin with.

John, he thinks of John.

Dirk turns back to Karkat, who holds a clawed hand out, waiting to shake on whatever asinine scheme his silver-screen romance-addled brain has cooked up. This might be the stupidest thing he’s ever done, topping letting John top him. Topping letting _Karkat_ top him.

Fine.

What does he have to lose?

Dirk takes his hand and shakes.

The plan is simple. It’s actually, what Dirk would perhaps classify as _too simple_.

He sits at the kitchen bar nursing his headache with a bowl of cereal. In the hallway, the sound of the shower running echoes, a rhythmic drum of water on tile coming from their shared bathroom. Maybe it’s a bit petty, but he knows John’s routine like the back of his hand. He’ll be—

Yep. Right on cue.

“Is there, uh...” John stands in the threshold of the hallway in just his boxers, blue towel slung over his shoulder. His face takes in the sight of Dirk, scrunching up his nose in an unpleasant manner. Rude. “…Company?”

Dirk ignores his question, choosing instead to reach across the counter and grab the empty bowl he’d sat out. Again, he knows John’s routine. Shower, breakfast, shooting the shit until he fucks off to work. Since his shower plans have been intercepted, Dirk shakes some Fruity Pebbles into the bowl. It’s the least he can do. John just stares at him in ungrateful disbelief.

“Breakfast?” Dirk asks casually, pouring the milk anyway. He knows he won’t be turned down.

And he’s right. John can’t turn down Fruity Pebbles. He grumbles something under his breath and snatches the bowl up, choosing to stand and hover, spooning cereal into his mouth, than to sit by Dirk. Oh, so he’s definitely scorned about something.

Interesting.

“You didn’t answer me,” he says around his bite. Wow. Raised in a nice white-collar home and he’s still acting like he’s learned his table manners in the barnyard.

“Unless we got another roommate, yeah. We have company.”

“Cool,” John says flatly, tone very obviously conveying that he doesn’t think it’s cool at all. “So, he stayed the night?”

Dirk sits his spoon down with a clatter. Twenty-fucking-questions with him, huh? That’s either jealousy or more of his notoriously trademarked teasing. Hard to tell the difference. John just watches him with thinly veiled scrutiny, shoveling an entire processed-sugar rainbow in his mouth, chewing like an angry horse.

Dirk lifts an eyebrow. “Obviously.”

“Cool,” John repeats, nodding his head. “Cool, cool, cool.”

“Are you having a stroke, Egbert?”

“No— _urghhh!_ ” The bowl clatters down and Dirk has all of five seconds to blink at it before John’s stepping into his space, settling a warm hand on his shoulder. “We need to talk.”

Dirk wants to make some defensive, snide remark about how he’s not a kid. What? Is he getting grounded for having a guy over? Better yet—John’s not his dad. He’s, okay. Shit. Dirk drags his gaze from John’s furrowed brow line, to the serious set of his mouth, to his neck and collarbone, chest carpeted in hair, lower and lower until he’s openly gaping at the dark happy trail disappearing into the band of his boxers. He might not be his dad but, holy hell, he can sure be his—

“Your water pressure sucks.”

John jumps back like he’s been burnt. Fair. Dirk’s skin does feel like it’s on fire. He doesn’t have a whole lot of time to wonder whether or not he’s been caught staring because Karkat’s slinging an arm over his shoulder and pressing a toothy kiss to his temple. Dirk only barely manages not to shove him off.

It’s all for show, he tells himself.

A show that’s working. Dirk watches as John shifts his gaze away, opting to become very interested in their floor, toeing at a crack in the tile like he’s never seen it before. Like he hasn’t been bitching about making a trip to Home Depot to fix it for months. Doesn’t quite feel like the victory he’s expecting.

“Sorry,” Dirk mumbles, too fixated on John and the way he’s _blushing._

Karkat ribs him in the side, narrowing his eyes in exasperation when Dirk finally looks over. Okay. He deserves that. Look, he never claimed to be good at acting. Just stoic. There’s a difference. Though, the scowl on Karkat’s face tells him he’s being pretty shit at that too.

_C’mon, Strider._

He can do this—he’s made for playful deceit and controlling the narrative. It’s why he’s such a great goddamn Dungeon Master. Manipulating John into thinking he’s dating Karkat to make him jealous might fall on the opposite side of the spectrum for “playful deceit” but he’s a desperate man going for desperate measures. What other option is he left with? Talk to him? Be open and honest with his feelings? His breakfast threatens to come back up for a dramatic encore at the thought.

Two sets of confused eyes hits him hard over the head with the realization that he’s been zoned out, staring unfocused somewhere past them both. Right.

“Anyway,” Karkat says, coughing into his fist, “I’ll see you later.” He goes to press another chaste kiss to the side of Dirk’s head, and in panic for a good performance, Dirk turns his head and tilts up, catching his mouth with his, kissing him square on the lips.

Karkat makes a muffled shocked sound, it’s almost loud enough to mask the sound of a slamming door.

Fuck. Maybe he’s fucked up. It’s not often he’s willing to admit he’s had a bad idea but—

Dirk pulls away from the clawed hand scruffing the back on his neck and groans, burying his head into his hands. Holy shit. He’s a colossal train wreck on so many levels. His psyche is the goddamn water temple in Ocarina of Time—which is pretty apt considering neither he nor John can beat it without a walkthrough. And here is his gallant guide, a surly romance-obsessed troll.

Karkat leaves and says he’ll text him, gives him an almost withering look as he leaves. Dirk tries not to think about it for too long. He goes back to his room and changes his bedsheets, wadding up the thoroughly ruined ones and tossing them in the back of the closest. Trolls, man. Kinda hot though.

He figures the least he can do is make himself scarce when he hears John turn off the water to the shower, shutting his door and leaning against it, listening to the wet slap of bare feet against the hardwood. Normally, John refusing to properly dry off is a pet peeve of his but, like everything else these days, it’s just one more thing that makes his heart flutter.

Weird.

Maybe Karkat was right. Maybe he is—

Dirk pulls out his phone and opens up their messages.

DIRK: Hey.  
DIRK: Sorry about that.  


It takes longer than he cares to admit getting a response. By the time he gets a new message ping, he’s paced his room several times and finally resorts to lying facedown on his mattress. Dirk’s head shoots up, hand scrambling for his phone, nearly knocking it onto the floor in the process.

JOHN: it’s cool.  


Dirk frowns.

DIRK: You keep saying that.  
JOHN: don’t worry about it, man!  
JOHN: is that better?  
DIRK: I don’t know. You asking me that makes it all seem a little factious, to be honest.  
JOHN: you’re soooooo observant.  


Dirk smiles. Wait, no. That means—

DIRK: So, it’s not cool?  
JOHN: you can do whatever you want.  
DIRK: It never mattered before.  


Several minutes pass, his message going unanswered. A part of his brain is screaming to just get off his ass, head to John’s room and have this conversation face-to-face. But, the other part of his brain, the one he’s deeming more logical, is screaming that he can’t handle rejection.

And, he can’t. Dirk’s the kind of guy that has a catalog of all his fatal flaws and that one, in particular, is definitely in a neatly pressed folder toward the top of the filing cabinet.

His phone vibrates in his hand.

JOHN: it doesn’t matter now either.  


Ouch. Change the topic.

DIRK: You wanted to talk to me?  
JOHN: i’m talking to you now, numb nuts.  
DIRK: You know what I mean.  
JOHN: like i said, it doesn’t matter!  
JOHN: let’s just go back to the way things were.  
JOHN: i miss my best friend.

Dirk squeezes his eyes shut tight, taking a deep breath before responding.

DIRK: Dave’s just a phone call away, bro.  
JOHN: you know i meant you!!!  
JOHN: jeez. don’t tell dave though.  
DIRK: Wouldn’t dream of it.  
DIRK: So, are we good?  
JOHN: yeah, we’re good.  
JOHN: :B

Dirk rolls over onto his back, staring at the ceiling, hand on his heart. It’s beating fast enough that he can feel every single beat through his ribs. Relief, that’s what he should be experiencing. Not this bone-crushing dread. Back to the way things were.

He’s not sure that’s possible.

DIRK: I miss you too, by the way.  
DIRK: I guess.  
JOHN: wow, real smooth!  
JOHN: do you want to watch a movie tonight?  
JOHN: or do you have plans with your new…  
JOHN: uh. boyfriend?

Avoid the truth.

DIRK: Nah. I’m free.  
JOHN: cool!  
DIRK: Cool.

So fucking cool.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i know the chapter count went up again. don't @ me.

Karkat is…great. Sure, he’s not exactly what anyone would call a ray of sunshine. That’s fine. It’s not like Dirk is either.

Because how can he be when he’s so _clearly_ the sun in this weird metaphor?

And what does that make him? John Egbert? Just a planet caught in Dirk’s orbit, circling him, and never getting close enough to touch. If he were having this discussion with Rose, she’d probably compare him to Icarus or something equally pretentious. _Be careful. Get too close to Dirk and he’ll burn your wings up, let you plummet, broken, back to Earth._

John can’t deny that he’s feeling pretty fucking burned already.

Circling back to Karkat, Dirk’s shiny new boyfriend. He doesn’t come around a whole lot, not since that first awkward encounter. They probably wait until John’s outta the house before having insanely loud interspecies sex all over the apartment. Small mercies, John supposes. So, at least, for the most part, it’s easy to pretend that Karkat doesn’t exist at all.

They can fall back into their old routines. They can go back to the way life was before John stuck his foot in his mouth—or, rather, stuck his dick in Dirk. They can do it and it’ll be for the best. That’s what John keeps telling himself anyway. At any rate, it’s starting sting slightly less and less when Dirk leaves the apartment on their corresponding days off to hang out with Karkat over at Dave’s place to be polite. Not that the residual sting isn’t still painful, it’s just more tolerable. A familiar disappointment in the hollow of his chest.

It’ll go back to normal. It has to.

But Dirk is always on his phone now, hunched over and barely listening. He’ll hum in response to John’s questions, rarely making eye contact. Shade contact? Point is, Dirk doesn’t look at him the same anymore.

At least they still watch movies together. Kind of.

“Dude,” John whines, elbowing Dirk for the hundredth time that evening. It gets him some attention for a second, amber eyes flitting up from his phone screen, visible where his shades have slid down his narrow nose. “You’re going to miss the best part.”

Dirk looks at the television, where two Velociraptors tap their hooked claws on a stainless-steel counter. He drops his gaze back to his phone immediately. “I hate this part.”

“What?” John lets his mouth hang open in disbelief. “You can’t. This scene is unparalleled.”

“It gives me anxiety.”

“Yeah,” he breathes, exasperated, eyeing Dirk. “It’s supposed to! That’s why it’s so good.”

“Why aren’t you watching it then?”

John frowns and turns back to the TV. One of the kids is scurrying around on the floor and slams his back against the counter, rattling a rack of kitchen utensils, immediately alerting the dinosaurs to his location. He can’t help it, his heart pounds in his chest watching both kids try to scramble to safety. Man, he remembers watching this the first time. He’d totally thought it would be curtains for them both.

When John cuts his eyes over to Dirk, he sees him watching too. The smile that creeps over his face at sight is involuntary but he doesn’t bother trying to hide it. Unlike Dirk, he’s not ashamed to admit he’s enjoyed something.

Well, mostly.

Fucking Dirk doesn’t count. That wasn’t _shame_.

“Told you it was good,” he mocks in a sing-song voice, elbowing Dirk again. Okay, he has to stop doing that. It’s just a chance to feel Dirk’s bare skin against his arm. Warm and inviting, pressed against him.

There’s the memory of Dirk’s hands on his chest, gripping with blunt nails. Legs wrapped around his waist, squeezing John while he moves against him. Clenched teeth that failed to hide needy whines as Dirk breathed through his nose, an image that would forever be burned into his memory.

John swallows and leans against the opposite armrest, propping his chin in the palm of his hand, fingers tapping against his knee. Picture of innocence. Definitely not a picture of a guy who was just recounting that time he hooked up with his best friend. His best friend, who has a boyfriend! A boyfriend who is a troll that’s a whole head taller than him and broader than him, and most definitely could kick his ass if it came down to dueling for Dirk’s honor.

He’s so screwed.

“It’s unrealistic,” Dirk comments dryly, snapping John from his reverie. His thumb moves ninety-to-nothing against his screen and John squashes the urge to crane his neck and figure out just what the fuck is so interesting over there.

Dirk tilts slightly so the screen is hidden and John bristles.

“No shit, doofus! It’s not going to be realistic. They’re dinosaurs in the modern world—or, in the nineties. I don’t know if you can call Goldblum’s curly mullet modern. Just suspend your belief.”

Dirk turns to him, pushing his shades up into his hair like a makeshift headband. He draws his eyebrows together, fierce and pointed. “Jeff Goldblum’s pure unhinged energy automatically makes anything that he does timeless.”

“Sheesh,” John says, drawing out every last syllable. “I didn’t know you were president of the Jeff Goldblum fan club.”

“Well. Now you do.”

Ugh. Damn the Strider’s and their multitude of unfunny ironic layers. Ironic onion, that’s what he should call them both, especially Dirk. John squints. “I honestly can’t tell if you’re joking or not.”

“Why would I joke about that?” The thin line of his mouth remains flat and deadly serious. “Is it funny to you?”

“No,” John tells him confidently. “It’s pretty lame. Which is why I think you’re joking. No offense, but you suck at telling jokes.”

“Offense taken in full.”

John continues to stare him down, arms crossed at his chest. No way. He will _not_ be the one to break the charade, thank you very much. He’ll ride this weird showdown to the very end. He’ll ride it until Dirk’s face splits into a grin. Wait. No. Don’t think about riding Dirk and _definitely_ don’t think about splitting him.

“Are you telling me you wouldn’t subscribe to that fan letter?” Dirk asks. Without a response, his eyes widen slightly in disbelief. “Jesus Christ, Egbert. You like Nicolas Cage. This is almost blasphemy.”

“He’s just not my type,” John answers, all mockery and faux defense. He only barely manages not to stick his tongue out like a bratty kid. “Sorry if that offends you.”

Something clicks on Dirk’s face, his mouth going slack before snapping shut. His posture shifts from playful confidence to something more akin to insecurity. Ah, shit.

“Right,” Dirk snorts, cutting his sharp gaze away. He begins picking at a hangnail on his thumb. A nervous habit that John’s clocked him for a hundred times over. “He’s lacking some key attributes.”

He should’ve known where this was going. It’s the _straight_ thing again. And, John knows that it’s his fault for not clarifying that he isn’t totally straight, not anymore. But every time he’s attempted, the words stick to the rough of his mouth, tasting like a mothball from the closet he’s been camping out in for his, well, entire life.

Now is his perfect chance. He can finally tell that Dirk he’s _not_ a heterosexual, point-blank. Then, they’ll do some, uh, gay bonding. Maybe hug.

Maybe…kiss?

Wait, no. Karkat. He forgot. Shit. He can still get this monumental confession off his chest though.

“The only attribute he’s lacking is a sweet-ass IMDB page,” John says slowly, wiggling his eyebrows. He’s counting on Dirk to pick up what he’s so eloquently laying down.

In return, Dirk gives him the most unimpressed look that John’s ever seen on another human. “Have you ever seen _The Fly?_ ”

“What? No. It looks dumb and lame, and kinda gross. I’ll stick to the classics,” John says.

Ghostbusters. Jurassic Park. National Treasure. _Con Air._ Dirk disagrees with them all. For every perfect example of cinematic artistry John offers him, Dirk has a rebuttal ready and waiting and they all suck! It’s like he’s purposefully trying to rile him up, as he continues to look at him with all that pompous and uncalled-for judgment and— _errrgh!_ He can’t take it anymore. He can’t! John grabs the throw pillow closest to him and swings.

The blow knocks Dirk’s shades right off their effortlessly cool perch atop his head, and John blinks down at the carpet where they sit, incriminatingly still. Slowly, his eyes follow the sound of cracking knuckles. Dirk looks a strange mixture of pissed and impressed.

“Oops,” John says without a trace of sincerity.

“You’re going to get it.”

On reflex, John almost says _please._ Which, huh. That’s new, inspiring a whole crop of visuals he hasn’t entertained before. But he’ll have to put a pin in it because one agitated Dirk Strider is lunging toward him and not even in the sexy way.

Oh, shit.

John tries to get away in time, but he gets as far as one knee bent and Dirk’s got talons in his sides, gripping tightly and attempting to drag him back down to the cushions. He allows himself to be pulled, twisting his body to grapple with Dirk, getting two sturdy arms hooked over his shoulders in a lock. All those gym trips are paying off in full. It’s almost effortless to roll them both off the couch, flipping Dirk on his back the moment they touch the ground.

This feels familiar but not quite the same.

For one, he’s straddling Dirk’s chest, knees planted on either side of his ribcage, not trapped between spindly legs. And, to save himself from being shoved off or decked clean in the face, John’s managed to get a hand on each of Dirk’s wrists, pinning them above his head into the soft carpet. It’s provocative, to say the least, but at least his dick isn’t acting up yet.

“What was that?” John teases, breathless and panting. “What am I going to get?”

Dirk licks his teeth in a challenge. “What do you want?”

Looks like he spoke entirely soon on behalf of his dick because it’s most certainly acting up. John swears he sees Dirk’s pupil dilate in real-time, and he realizes, belatedly, it’s because they’re locked in an intense stare-off. The longer he looks, the more his stomach flips, the anticipation and need churning low in his belly. After all, there are parts of him that are _very_ thrilled to be this close to Dirk’s mouth. He’s only human.

“Well?” Dirk prompts.

Right. What does he want?

“I want,” John starts, and squeezes the boney wrists in his grip, eliciting a small, shocked gasp from Dirk’s parted lips. He wants to hear that sound again, possibly louder, but it doesn’t seem fair to ask for that. He leans over until he’s level with Dirk’s face, smiling. “I want you to admit Nicolas Cage is superior.”

Dirk’s head thumps against the floor and he groans in the exact opposite way that John wants. “Get off.”

“Is that what _you_ want?” The joke, laden with innuendo, is out of his mouth before he can stop it. Dirk catches it too, if he had to guess, judging by the way his sharp eyes widen. Damn. Nothing ever flies over that ironically spikey head of hair, does it?

“You don’t want to know what I want,” Dirk says, looking somewhere over John’s shoulder at the ceiling. He smirks but it’s tired, lacks his usual snark.

“Very edgy.”

Whatever distance lingering in Dirk’s gaze vanishes in a snap, gaze snapping back to meet John’s with full attention. Something is working behind his eyes. Gears are shifting, clinking into place. A plan is forming, and John is well aware it’ll be to his detriment.

A knee slams hard into his backside, sending him rocking forward. Two things happen. One, the sudden movement makes it nearly impossible to control exactly where certain areas of his body go—which is how his crotch ends up pressed firmly against Dirk’s fucking face. John hears and _feels_ the muffled smug laughter against his shorts. Even through a layer of cargo shorts and cotton, he can feel the heat of his mouth.

Two, he panics, and the previously iron-clad grip on Dirk’s wrists loosens. It provides just enough of a scapegoat for Dirk to wiggle free and scoot down between his legs to pop out on the other side and there’s not shit that John can do about it because every fiber of his being is currently way too busy trying not to pop a boner.

Which, he’s not a _complete_ idiot. That was probably the plan. Dirk plays dirty, and that thought doesn’t help said boner situation.

John gets about five seconds of respite—on his knees, staring down at the empty space beneath him where Dirk had once been; flexing his fingers in the carpet, no longer pinning down thin wrists. He takes the moment for what it is, a time to reflect on where he went wrong. Not just in their tussle, but in general.

He never figures it out.

Dirk’s arm hooks around his neck from behind him in a chokehold, leaning back and taking John along for the ride. His brain is still too fuzzy to put up much of a fight. Not that he even wants to, when he ends up laying with his back pressed flat against Dirk’s chest, an arm barred across his throat with just enough pressure that he feels the contour of Dirk’s forearm when he swallows. Their legs end up tangled together— Dirk has the advantage, and John can’t move for shit.

“Give up?”

“That was a dirty trick,” he grunts, pushing back in a feeble attempt. The only limbs that have free-range are his hands, and the only thing he can manage to do with that is to grab Dirk’s arm and hold himself steady.

Dirk hums low in his ear. “That’s pretty humorous coming from a self-proclaimed prankster.”

“Not fair.” John struggles but it’s just for show. “Jerk.”

God, is he a bad friend? Is he the jerk? For wanting to take advantage of their current position. Not for any creepy nefarious purposes, but just to bask in the comfort of being wrapped up with him. Never mind that the position is a chokehold and not a loving embrace. Details.

“This is a perfectly legal wrestling move,” Dirk tells him. “You should be embarrassed.”

John can practically feel the curve of a smile against the shell of his ear. His whole body grows hot and tingly, stomach doing summersaults as all the blood rushes from his head and straight to his dick. This isn’t good. Dirk has his legs on lock, and they’re spread just enough that there’s no way in hell he’s going to be able to hide the side-effects of Dirk whispering in his ear while manhandling him into submission.

He just _keeps_ learning new things about himself. Who knew wrestling was so homoerotic?

“You should shut up,” John mumbles finally. Good one. Five-star comeback.

“I don’t think you’re in any position to be making demands.” Despite how cocky of a remark it is, the previously steady tone of Dirk’s voice has vanished, replaced with something breathy and strained.

Huh.

And John realizes all at once that he’s been too caught up in his peril and rapidly growing problem to notice that he’s not the only one affected. Right against his back, just above the curve of his ass, he feels the outline of Dirk’s unmistakably hard dick. Oh, shit. Shit, shit, shit, _shit_.

This isn’t good. Well, it is. It’s _so_ good. But logically, it’s a fucking nightmare. What the hell is he supposed to do now? He’s just as hard. There’s no way that Dirk doesn’t see the very obvious tent in his shorts. There’s also no way he doesn’t know that John feels every inch of him. Maybe they aren’t _supposed_ to mention it. Kinda feels like they should address the elephant trunks in the room though.

Unfortunately, there really isn’t a subtle way to say: _“Hey, man. I think that might be your diamond-hard erection pressed against me! Is it a platonic boner or like, do you want to do something about this?”_

Instead, John eloquently says, “Uhm, Dirk?”

Dirk’s entire body goes tense. His breath comes out in a hot, raspy whisper. “What?”

Speaking coherently isn’t a viable option anymore. All the blood flow to John’s brain has been siphoned straight to his dick. He can’t think. He can’t speak. The only thing he has the power to do is rock back against Dirk in an attempt to draw attention to the source of his inquiry.

Behind him, Dirk makes a strangled noise. He places his free hand firm against John’s chest, right above his heart, and John wonders if he’s trying to gauge exactly how panicked he is by the way his heartbeat thumps frantically against his palm. Dirk hums, or maybe it’s a moan, and slides his hand over to center it against his sternum. It’s a hot brand that sears through his shirt and skin, sinking right down to the core of him.

John shifts in gangly-limbed prison, not to get away, but to feel a little friction. He tries again. “Dirk?”

Dirk presses his lips to the edge of John’s ear and quietly shushes him. The warmth of his breath sends a full-body shiver down John’s spine, his eyes fluttering shut as he arches against him, not able to get very far given their arrangement. Completely at his mercy. John isn’t sure if he’s ever been this turned on in his life.

“You can tap out,” Dirk whispers. His hand is trailing down John’s chest, growing featherlight the closer it gets to the waistband of his shorts, and John feels dizzy for it. “Say the word.”

John hisses through his teeth, watching Dirk’s fingers stop to rest right there on the edge. Slow close, and yet so far away from where he desperately wants them. He can say the word. Stay or go. It’s his choice.

He wants.

He _wants._

John opens his mouth with intent to tell Dirk exactly what he wants, but a low buzz next to him stops the words from coming out. He snaps his head over, wide-eyed and startled, to stare at Dirk’s phone vibrating across the carpet. The screen brightens to show a heap of notifications. Most texts. Most attached to a very familiar name that John has somehow forgotten about until right now.

Nothing kills the mood faster than suddenly remembering that the guy who is seconds away from jerking your dick has a boyfriend.

“Stop,” John breathes. _“Stop.”_

Dirk pulls his hand back like he’s been burned and relaxes his hold, letting John scramble to his feet. He sways, light-headed and dizzy, and fights the urge to fall back on the couch. If he does that, he might not get up, and he needs to vacate the premises. Immediately.

He looks down to see Dirk reaching for his phone with a frown on his face, thumbing open his inbox to a wall of text. John averts his eyes, feeling ashamed. He doesn’t want to know what’s in those messages. The thought makes him queasy. Not out of jealousy, but guilt. He’s not a fucking homewrecker and yet, he can’t deny that he was _very_ much on board with letting Dirk touch him.

And Dirk? He’s not a cheater! He’s always been loyal to a fault, to the point that it sometimes drove John up the wall.

So, what the hell was that?

“John.” Dirk’s calm voice pulls him back to Earth. He’s still on the floor, phone in hand, and a concerned crease to his brow. “You good, man?”

“I,” John starts, swallowing hard. He lowers his hands from his head, where he’d apparently been tugging at his hair during his momentary lapse of sanity. “I’m good.”

Lie. He’s so sick of lying to himself, to Dirk.

“Actually, you know what? I’m not good. I’m not good at all. You’re in a relationship! And we just—we just almost…” Holy shit, he can’t even say it. That might blow whatever poor excuse for plausible deniability they have left. He drops his arms limply to the side. “You have a boyfriend.”

Dirk stares up at him, mouth parted in a silent shock. His thumb rubs over his phone screen, black and empty, and he finally looks away and has the decency to look ashamed. “Yeah,” he sighs. A self-deprecating laugh follows, and he covers his face with both hands and scrubs. “I guess I do. Fuck.”

He _guesses?_

“I’m going to bed,” John says quietly. He picks up the remote, turning off the television, stepping over Dirk’s legs. The hall leading to his bedroom feels like it’s miles away. He just wants the sanctuary of his dark room, where he can suss out what the fuck just happened.

“Wait.”

John freezes like the pathetic chump he is, steadying his hand on the corner of the threshold. Against his better judgment, he looks over his shoulder. Dirk’s got his shades back on, masking his eyes, expression trained to be cautiously neutral. His hands give him away. They shake at his side, where he starts to nervously pick at his thumb with his index finger.

“I need to ask you something,” Dirk says when the silence drags on too long. “If it weren’t for Karkat, would you have stopped me?”

John’s breath catches in his throat. He says nothing.

“There wasn’t any other reason?”

“What do you think, Dirk?” John snaps, perhaps a bit unfairly. He’s just so tired of lying. He’s just so tired in general. “No. That _was_ the only reason. I thought it was pretty obvious I wanted you.”

Dirk nods, head tilted to the floor. Processing. “Okay.”

Something in John’s chest fractures at the sound. It hadn’t been obvious, had it? Maybe in that moment, when he was turned on and harder than a rock, sure. But physical contact, rolling around on the ground, would probably get anyone a little worked up. That’s…that’s not what he means. Dirk really doesn’t have a fucking clue, and how could he when John only recently put the pieces together himself? That the feeling in his chest when they’re together extended outside the realm of really good bros.

“I’m sorry,” John tells him, unable to pinpoint exactly what he’s even apologizing for. Not realizing his feelings sooner? Fucking him and then laughing about it for weeks? Not telling him the truth until it was already too late? Yeah, he’s sorry for all of those things and more.

He’s especially sorry for the insistent tug at his heart telling him to just say fuck it and drag him back to his room. Dirk might’ve been ready to throw his relationship out of the window at the drop of a hat, but John…he might not like Karkat all that much, but he’s probably a hell of a lot better for Dirk than he is. Karkat didn’t pussyfoot around when it came to showing Dirk his intentions.

“Can we talk about this later?”

John tries to smile. “Sure. Tomorrow?”

“No. I need to take care of something tomorrow. But soon, okay?”

Soon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fellas, is it gay to roll around on the ground with your bro sporting a boner? asking for a friend. 
> 
> the next chapter is a bonus chapter that i'm adding to lighten up how heavy this one got. it will be up shortly! that said, they're finally on the track toward the mythical concept of communication. it only took like 16k words.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in case you were wondering what was so interesting on dirk's phone.
> 
> (this follows chapter four which was updated at the same time! so if you haven’t read chapter four. do that!! if homoerotic wrestling doesn’t ring a bell you might have missed it.)

Incoming message from => KARKAT [9:27 PM]

KARKAT: SO?   
DIRK: Hey.  
KARKAT: HAVE YOU DONE IT YET?  
DIRK: Alright, skipping the pleasantries.  
DIRK: Cool.  
DIRK: Straight to business with you.  
KARKAT: YOU'RE STALLING.  
DIRK: He's making me watch Jurassic Park.  
KARKAT: OH, HOLY SHIT. YOU REALLY DO HAVE IT BAD FOR THIS POOR BASTARD.  
DIRK: It's not all that bad.   
DIRK: You aren't a fan because it lacks overt romantic tones.  
KARKAT: FUCK OFF.  
DIRK: I know there's the subtle love-triangle between Grant, Malcolm, and Dern. It doesn't really seem relevant in the grand scheme of things though.  
DIRK: Maybe with the raptors. There's definitely some tension between a few of them. That's what the movie is all about, after all. Dinosaurs.  
DIRK: Well, I do have to take into consideration the heavy-handed parallels showcasing mankind’s innate desire to be in complete control and just how disastrous that ends up being for everyone.  
DIRK: Maybe I spoke too soon. There are some real gold nuggets in this narrative.  
DIRK: Damn.   
KARKAT: WHY ARE YOU STILL MESSAGING ME?   
KARKAT: I'M GOING TO ASSUME JOHN IS LESS THAN FIVE FEET AWAY FROM YOU.   
KARKAT: WHY DON'T YOU TRY...I DON'T KNOW. THIS IS A CRAZY IDEA. BUT MAYBE TRY FUCKING PAYING ATTENTION TO HIM?  
DIRK: You messaged me.  
KARKAT: TO SEE IF YOU'D PULLED YOUR HEAD OUT OF YOUR ASS AND DONE SOMETHING ABOUT YOUR INSUFFERABLE PINING!   
KARKAT: BUT NOPE!  
KARKAT: THERE YOU ARE, CONTORTIONED IN HALF TO KEEP YOURSELF FIRMLY LODGED.  
KARKAT: *LITERALLY* FUCKING YOURSELF.  
DIRK: Thank you for that alarmingly hot visual.  
DIRK: Also, what do you expect me to do? Slide over and put the mack on him? Drape my arm tenderly over his shoulder and pull him in for a passionate, yet tantalizing Strider kiss?  
KARKAT: YEAH. DO THAT.   
DIRK: No.  
KARKAT: WHY THE FUCK NOT?  
DIRK: Circumstances.  
KARKAT: OH MY FUCKING GOD.  
KARKAT: YOU DIDN'T TELL HIM, DID YOU?  
KARKAT: PLEASE TELL ME YOU TOLD HIM WE—QUOTE, UNQUOTE—BROKE UP?  
DIRK: You have a keyboard. You can use quotation marks.  
KARKAT: IT WAS FOR "EMPHASIS".  
DIRK: Sure.   
DIRK: No. I haven't told him yet.  
KARKAT: YOU'RE FUCKING IMPOSSIBLE.  
KARKAT: I'M DONE. HOLY ABSOLUTE SHIT, I'M THROWING IN THE TOWEL.  
KARKAT: WHO DID YOU TEXT BEFORE? BOTHER THEM FROM NOW ON.  
KARKAT: YOU JUST REJECT MY HELP LIKE THE WRONG END OF A SELF-SABOTAGING MAGNET.  
DIRK: Dave.  
DIRK: Fine. I'll just message him then.  
KARKAT: WHAT GOOD WOULD THAT DO? HE'S BEEN HOVERING OVER MY SHOULDER THIS ENTIRE TIME.  
KARKAT: AND HIS INSIGHT IS JUST AS ENLIGHTENING AS YOURS.  
KARKAT: WHICH IS TO SAY, IT ISN'T AT ALL.

DIRK added DAVE to the chat. [9:51 PM]

DAVE: sup  
DIRK: Yo.  
KARKAT: OH MY GOD.  
DAVE: so egbert thinks youre boning my new boyfriend  
DIRK: Well. Technically, he still thinks Karkat is my new boyfriend.  
DIRK: But, yeah. Pretty much.  
DAVE: right  
DAVE: so jurassic park huh?  
DIRK: Yeah.  
DAVE: romantic   
DAVE: did you know john doesnt care that much for goldblum   
DAVE: hes just indifferent  
DIRK: What?  
DAVE: yeah man idk  
DAVE: hes always had shit taste in actors  
DAVE: men too i guess  
DAVE: considering he fucked you and never once gave into my raw sexual energy that exuded on the daily around the apartment  
DAVE: honestly kinda rude but im not mad or anything  
KARKAT: YOU SOUND KIND OF MAD.  
DIRK: I'm going to agree with Vantas.   
DIRK: That shit sounds jilted as hell, bro.  
DAVE: whatever man i clearly pulled the longer end of the proverbial stick here with karkat  
DAVE: the stick is so long i just keep pulling it like a rainbow scarf straight out of a clown gaping mouth  
DAVE: imagine the longest fucking stick you can   
DAVE: now double it  
DIRK: This has surpassed idiom and gone straight into something Freudian and phallic-shaped.  
DIRK: Nice.  
KARKAT: PLEASE STOP. I AM LITERALLY BEGGING YOU.  
DIRK: Wow. You weren't joking.  
DIRK: John really is indifferent to Goldblum.  
DAVE: its wild man  
KARKAT: YEAH. THAT'S PRETTY WEIRD.  
DIRK: Alright. I'm going to go bust his chops about this.  
DIRK: Later.  
DAVE: go bust him good  
KARKAT: GOOD LUCK.

Incoming message from => KARKAT [10:57 PM]

KARKAT: HEY.  
KARKAT: I KNOW I GIVE YOU A HARD TIME. MOSTLY ON THE ACCOUNT OF YOU BEING A MASSIVE TOOL BUT I'M GOING TO "REAL" WITH YOU HERE.  
KARKAT: YOU AREN'T AS BAD AS YOU THINK YOU ARE.  
KARKAT: YOU ACTUALLY *DO* DESERVE GOOD THINGS.  
KARKAT: I GUESS YOU'RE ACTUALLY WATCHING THE MOVIE NOW.  
KARKAT: JUST FUCKING TELL HIM HOW YOU FEEL.   
KARKAT: I'LL LEAVE YOU TO IT.

Outgoing message to => KARKAT [1:15 AM]

DIRK: I think I fucked up.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> in which dave strider talks a lot but makes some points. unbeta'd. it's 4am, but i'm anxious to get this posted and start working on the last chapter. i'll probably go through and tweak some things tomorrow, but as of now...it's done.
> 
> [tw for implied past abuse. nothing too serious.]

“Bro, seriously?”

It’s a good thing there’s a coffee table between them because Karkat looks like his hands are aching to throttle. Dave sits next to him, shaking his head, rubbing furious circles against his temples. His thigh is pressed against Karkat’s, probably the only thing keeping him at bay from the aforementioned throttling. A whole damn couch and they’re piled on top of each other.

“I know,” Dirk sighs. “I’m not proud of myself or anything.”

“You shouldn’t be! You were supposed to mention our ‘break up’—” and here, Karkat uses honest-to-god air quotes, “—weeks ago! The plan worked, didn’t it? Wasn’t John just _dying_ to hang out with you? He was blowing up Dave’s phone with very obvious and unsubtle inquiries about your absolute sorry ass! You had him. Hook, line, and sinker! Then you fucking left the line in too long and—”

Dirk looks to his brother, eyebrow raised. “Has he been watching the nature channel or something?”

“Extreme Fishing,” Dave answers gravely.

“Shut up. It’s exhilarating.”

“Yeah, actually, it is. Dude, Dirk. Listen—this guy caught a swordfish bigger than the boat. Just, holy shit, a giant fucking fish with a sword coming out of its head. That thing was massive, wasn’t it?” He nudges Karkat with his elbow and receives a very disgruntled but fond look in return. The whole display sorta makes Dirk’s stomach turn from the cloying sweetness.

“You only liked it because of the sword,” Karkat accuses.

“Hell yeah, I did.” Dave grins at him, delightful and bright. So textbook charming that Dirk’s surprised there isn’t an actual gleam of sparkling light. Damn. No wonder his fake Troll boyfriend dropped him like a hot potato. Dirk can’t compete with that. When he practices smiling in the mirror, it just looks menacing and vaguely threatening.

“Okay.” Dirk clears his throat, regaining both their attention from their googly-eyed stare off. “Now that we’ve successfully established that you’re both extreme fishermen, can we get back to the problem at hand?”

Karkat rolls his eyes. “The problem you singlehandedly created by not listening to me?”

“Yeah. That’s it.” He could definitely argue that there were a lot of hands involved with this particular problem, not just his—including Karkat’s grubby Troll ones, Dave’s freckled clumsy ones, and John’s appallingly strong ones. “Last night things got…handsy.”

He really has to stop thinking about hands.

“Oh?” Dave asks, amused curiosity.

At the same time, Karkat smacks his forehead and groans, “ _Oh._ ”

Explaining to Dave and his new boyfriend, who happens to be Dirk’s fake ex-boyfriend, that he wrestled his love interest, Dave’s best friend and ex-roommate, to the ground until they both popped boners is…definitely not something that Dirk ever thought he’d have to do. But damn if he didn’t do it.

Karkat had stared at him, slack-jawed and with a growing rage until he finally said fuck it, literally, and absconded right from the living room. Dave had at least held in his wheezing fit of laughter until after Dirk had solemnly finished his recount of the previous night.

That was nice of him, Dirk thinks.

And now here they stand on the balcony of Dave’s porch, overlooking the busy streets beneath them, the two of them silent while taxies blare their horns at one another, and life carries on. The familiar, soothing mid-day lullaby of city life. It’s relaxing in the strangest of way. Makes him a little homesick.

“Hey. Remember hanging out on the roof back home?” Dirk asks.

“You mean Texas?”

“Yeah. That’s what I said.”

Dave snorts and leans against the railing, staring off in the distance. The cityscape reflects off the dark lenses of his aviator glasses, but Dirk doesn’t need to see beneath them to know the look his brother is sporting. “Man,” he sighs, “I don’t know about you, but Texas isn’t home for me anymore. It hasn’t been for a while.”

“I get that,” Dirks says, and he does. Truly. “I like to look back on some of it though. Don’t you? There’s no erasin’ that shit so might as well remember the good times.”

“What? Smoking that pack of stolen cigarettes until we hacked up a lung?” Dave strums a nervous beat on the wrought-iron. “You getting your ass handed to you when we got caught, even though it was my fault? I’m the one that swiped them. Which part do you miss the most, ‘cause I have to be honest with you…I don’t miss it any of it?”

Shrugging, Dirk mirrors him, leaning against the railing, bumping their shoulders together. A small gesture to ground him. “Just us hanging out, making big plans about getting the fuck out of dodge. I guess this ain’t as luxurious as becoming some big shot movie director though.”

Hanging his head, shoulders shaking, Dave laughs. “Yeah, I can’t believe Sweet Bro and Hella Jeff didn’t take off. What the fuck is wrong with Hollywood?”

“Their loss. Your irony is a goldmine,” Dirk tells him. There’s something else though, something else he wants to bring up. He swallows down the lump in his throat. “Remember those late-night video chats with John?”

Dave doesn’t say anything, and Dirk knows that the same things are flashing through his head. Memories of them huddled beneath a blanket with Dirk’s old laptop, the one with the fan that whirled louder than some redneck’s shitty truck, with John Egbert on the other side of the screen and his nice bedroom in the background. Staying up ‘til three in the morning whispering with their friend thousands of miles away and feeling safe, even for a little bit. John had been Dave’s friend first, but his hunk of a desktop didn’t have a webcam, and Dirk had become an acquaintance by osmosis. Then their big dream goals slowly drifted away from things like moving to Hollywood, traveling the world, climbing Mount fuckin’ Everest—to packing their bags and going up to Seattle and living in a tiny apartment with John.

“Yeah,” Dave says quietly, huffing out a laugh. “I had the stupidest crush on him, dude.”

“I know.”

“Did…did you?”

“No,” Dirk answers honestly. “I figured if he didn’t go for you, he really was straight. Sort of pushed any other thought I might have had out of my mind until…recently.”

“Still fucking blown away with that one.”

“Me too.”

The silence between the resumes but it feels heavier than before. Dirk wrings his hands; Dave taps his fingers. Digging up these painful memories always leaves him a little raw and sore, and he knows it’s the same for Dave. It’s why they mostly don’t talk about it. It was a long time ago. Why would they? Except now—

“We owe a lot to John,” Dirk says quietly. “God, I fucking owe him my entire _soul_ for getting you out of that situation.”

Nudging his shoulder, Dave smiles. “He got you out of it too.”

“That doesn’t matter.” That’s never mattered. He’d spend his whole damn life at the sharp end of a sword if it meant Dave never had to feel it. They both know that. John knew it too, it’s why the invitation was extended to them both, even when there wasn’t room for him, why he’d spent years sleeping on the couch until Dave got his own place. Became independent.

Then Dirk had stayed like a leech.

Then John had given him a taste of blood and he wanted more. He’s so fucking selfish.

Dirk buries his head in his hands, the hard metal of the balcony railing painfully digging into his elbows. “I fucked up so bad, Dave. I mean. I fucked up immensely.”

A hand on his back makes him jump, just a tender press of fingers to the top of his spine. Dave rubs the spot between his shoulders before giving him a nice bro pat and pulling away. “John fucking loves you, man. That’s all there really is to say on the matter. Maybe he’s not in love with you, I don’t know. That’s something you’d need to ask him. But…you realize that he’s not just _my_ friend, right?”

That’s the thing. Dirk does know that. He’s not sure when it changed; when exactly John became _his_ friend and not just _Dave’s_ friend. But he knows that’s true. He’s known it for a good while—and even with his social circle bigger than it's ever been, it mostly feels like it's just the three of them, linked together by both unfortunate and fortunate circumstances. For the longest time, it was only Dave that occupied the cavity in Dirk’s chest where a heart should be, but somewhere along the line, John had weaseled his way in there too.

If he does this, if he admits that out loud to John, it might mean losing him. And he’s petrified to take that risk.

Dirk doesn’t say any of that. Not even to Dave. Especially not to Dave. “Yeah, I get that.”

“For what it’s worth…I don’t think you have anything to worry about,” Dave says. “John isn’t very good with his feelings. Expressing them, at least. That’s probably why we all get along so well. The Three Musketeers of Repressed Emotions. Stabbin’ rapiers right in each other’s hearts. Just because he grew up with a white picket fence and an apple pie life, doesn’t mean that he doesn’t have issues.”

When Dirk lifts his head, Dave’s already looking at him. Behind the safety of his shades, of course. Dirk lifts his, pushing them back into his hair. Gotta let Dave know that he means business. “I get that too. Frankly, I’m a little offended you think otherwise.”

Dave lifts his shades too, mirroring Dirk’s efforts, exposing eyes big and red, framed with lashes so blonde they may as well be white. Oh shit, now it’s a real Strider Feelings Jam. The barrier is gone, the glares are unobstructed. Dave doesn’t whip those bad boys out for any menial back-and-forth.

“Dirk,” Dave says, tone gravely serious. “Look me in my freakishly handsome eyes and tell me that you honest-to-god believe that John fucking Egbert slept with you for no reason at all?”

Well, when he puts it like that…

“To sate a curiosity,” Dirk says. It doesn’t sound very convincing, even to his own ears. That’s fine. He has more excuses. “It was a joke. He was drunk. He told me himself that he’s—”

“Straight?” Dave quirks an eyebrow. “Dude. You do realize that John’s been in the closet for so long that he’s basically fused with his dead Nanna’s mink coat, right? He’s been living off lost socks and pocket lint for years, bro. He’s balls deep in mothballs. He just found next year’s Christmas presents—”

“Woah.”

“What?”

“Not even one Narnia joke?”

“No,” Dave scoffs. “Unlike you and Egbert, I don’t watch lame-ass movies. The point I’m trying to make here is…What happened between you two? Yeah, that was a big step for him. Dude, he’s probably been scared shitless.”

Ducking his head, Dirk closes his eyes and lets out a shuddering breath. He opens his mouth to say something, anything, but nothing comes out.

Dave continues, “I’m not trying to make you feel bad. I get it. Feelings are hard or whatever, and yeah, I know I went along with your and Karkat’s insane plan at first. Mostly, I dunno, I guess that I thought it’d be funny but maybe I didn’t realize the full extent of it, ya know? Couldn’t see all strings connecting the dots because they were wound up in a tangled yarn ball of repressed feelings and mutual pining.”

“Sounds like you’ve been watching romcoms with Karkat,” Dirk comments because teasing his little brother is a lot easier than swallowing the lump in his throat or admitting that Dave is right. They’ve made a giant fucking mess of things. “Thought you didn’t watch lame-ass movies?”

“I watch them because Karkat likes them. Get it?” Dave snaps, blinking like he’s waiting for something to click, rolling his eyes when Dirk offers nothing but a blank stare. “How many times have you watched a shitty movie because John wanted to? I’ve got money on the answer being a helluva lot.”

“Oh,” Dirk says, absently picking at the skin around his thumb. Exposed and raw like a frog flayed open, chest peeled back and pinned for inspection, ready to have someone figure out how he works from the inside-out. “Huh.”

“I know I’ve only been with Karkat for nearly a month. I’m not saying that I love the dude, but if I’m willing to watch _Love Actually_ more than once, that has to mean something. So, I don’t know how to tell you this, but John heaving his khaki-clad ass out of the closet for you is a pretty big fucking deal.”

Another pause passes between them where Dirk can’t work out the words to say. It’s like his throat is being crushed by the monumental weight of just how badly he’s screwed up and he can’t even find the words to admit it.

Next to him, Dave pushes his fingers through his hair and stares somewhere over his shoulder. “Look, you’re my brother. John is my best friend. The two of you are complete fucking disasters. But I know you care about him, and you owe it to yourself and John to tell him the truth. The dude probably just realized he’s not straight for the first time in his life—which is fucking wild given how much he drools over the Cage—but you apparently triggered a giant rainbow avalanche of homoerotic feelings.”

Dirk looks down at his hands. His thumb is bleeding where he’s picked it clean throughout Dave’s verbal beatdown. It stings but somewhere in the back of his mind a voice tells him he deserves it. He left John, confused, to deal with all this alone. He’d brought someone into their apartment and fucked away his own pain to purposely hurt John. He’d lied. He’d lied for _weeks_. John, who’d given him a home.

John, who he loves.

Before the tears can fall, Dirk flicks his shades back down over his eyes. “I tell him and then what?”

He leaves? They part ways, still friends, because that’s the way John is, and things are cool for a little bit but pretty soon John isn’t returning his texts and he hears from Dave he’s been seeing someone? Then they run into each other at the grocery store and conversation is stilted and awkward and someone way more deserving comes up and rests their hand on the small of John’s back and Dirk gets introduced as his friend’s brother.

Dave shrugs, completely oblivious to the fucking maelstrom in Dirk’s head. “I dunno. Maybe he loves you, maybe he doesn’t. I don’t have any daisies handy to pluck the petals off of.”

“How about you pluck my head off instead?”

“Nah,” he says casually, pushing his shades back down. Feelings jam officially over. “Not gonna lie, this is getting a little gay.”

Dirk snorts back a laugh, taking a moment to look at Dave and catalog all the ways he’s grown and changed, and not just physically. Back in Texas, he’d been such a scrawny thing, gangly limbs, and permanently bruised knees, and Dirk remembers how fiercely he’d wanted to protect him. Now, he’s filled out, grown into his body, but Dirk still sees traces of his kid brother lingering there—even if he’s currently the one handing out the advice and serving up a heaping pile of pills hard to swallow.

Dirk reaches out and ruffles his hair, much to Dave’s dismay. “Hey, thanks, bro. I mean it.”

“Gay,” Dave reiterates.

“Not to break up this disgusting display of hatchmate bonding—” Dirk and Dave both turn to the sliding door leading back into the living room, Karkat’s unruly head of hair poking out, his scowl on full display. “—but we have a problem.”

Dirk looks just past Karkat’s shoulder and sees John, grinning and waving at them both.

“Ah, shit.”

“ _Ah, shit_ is right,” Karkat hisses in what he probably thinks is a whisper. “Did you two figure something out? Because I can’t entertain this moron for much longer!”

Dave slaps his hand against Dirk’s back, sending him stumbling forward. Thank god he’d readjusted his shades to hide any emotion conveyed by his eyes; especially considering they feel like they might pop right out of his skull. He’s nervous. Dirk Strider doesn’t fucking get nervous.

 _Say that to your mutilated thumbs_ , a voice in the back of Dirk’s mind says. It sounds a lot like Dave. Asshole.

“Yeah, let’s go. We’re good. Plan all laid out, ready to place into action. Fuckin’ checkmate, man. King me. Bingo. Yahtzee,” Dave says in one long, continuous breath. Okay, so he’s back to making absolutely zero sense. Great. He shoves at Dirk’s back again, ushering him to the door while his limbs cooperate with little more than stiff robotic movements. “No whammies Time to come on down and see if the price is right.”

“You’ve switched from board games to game shows,” Dirk helpfully points out. He freezes in the doorway, hands on both sides of the threshold, holding himself there like a cat trying to avoid the bathtub.

“So what?” Dave grunts, shouldering past him. “You’re stalling.”

“You’re both about to make me lose it,” Karkat growls.

Across the living room, John laughs awkwardly. “Uh, hey.”

“Hi.”

“Should we leave?” Karkat whispers to Dave. Only, it’s not a whisper. Everyone in the goddamn room hears him. "I think we should leave."

“Why would you guys leave?” John asks, puzzled. Turning back to Dirk, he gives an apologetic smile that makes Dirk’s heart flutter. “And, uh, no offense but I didn’t know you were here. I actually came to talk to Dave about something.”

The fluttering ceases to a grinding halt. Chancing a look over at Dave, Dirk watches him lift his shades to rub at the bridge of his nose. Karkat puts a hand on his shoulder, clawed fingers fitting perfectly along the curve to massage lightly. Fuck. Could they be any more obvious? John notices it too if his perplexed expression is anything to go by.

“I’ll go,” Dirk offers before everything goes absolutely fucking pear-shaped. Hastily, he makes his way to the door, perfectly fine with absconding in a cloud of dust just to avoid whatever the hell is happening. “Nice seein’ you, Dave. Karkat.” He stops at John’s side and nods like he’s tipping an invisible hat. “John.”

“Wait—” He freezes. Goddamnit. So close. He’d been so close to the door. “You’re leaving your boyfriend?”

“Karkat and Dirk aren’t dating,” Dave blurts out. “Jesus Christ.”

“Oh,” John says, following it up with a sympathetic sound—like the kind of noise someone makes when plans get canceled and they hadn’t wanted to go in the first place. “I’m…sorry? Should I be apologizing or…?”

No one says anything, proceeding to, instead, take part in the world’s most uncomfortable standoff.

“This is really awkward,” John says, laughing to break the tension. “I can go. Maybe you two need to talk it out or something. Hey, Dave do you want to come with me?”

“No.”

“Oh.”

Dave turns his attention toward the door, toward Dirk, who still feebly reaches for the doorknob. “Tell him Dirk.”

“Tell me what?”

“We should leave,” Karkat says again.

“Holy shit. No one is leaving until Dirk—”

“Me and Karkat were never dating.”

And there it is, out in the open, hanging in the air, suspended by the stunned silence. Weirdly, Dirk feels lighter for it. Even when John looks at him, mouth open, and tilts his head in an unspoken question. He looks more confused than hurt and that’s at least a silver lining.

“So, you two never…?” Like a middle-schooler, John makes a circle with his finger and thumb with one hand and slowly uses the index finger of his other to play a game of sexy charades.

“No, we did.” Dirk looks over, he can’t help it, to see Karkat glowing red. “Sorry.”

“Oh. I guess I’m just a little confused.”

“Yeah, me too,” Dirk sighs. “Look, I know you came here to talk to Dave, but I really want to talk to you first. If that’s okay?”

John looks at him and Dirk can practically see the wheels turning behind his eyes. So many things clicking into place. Slowly, the look of confusion morphs into something else. Dirk can admit, just this once, that he’s a coward because he turns away before he can put a name to it.

“Okay,” he says, voice even. “Sure.”

“Can we do this at home?”

“Please,” Karkat says from somewhere behind John. Dave nods his head in agreement.

John squints at them both, eyes narrowing in on where Karkat’s hand is still laid gently on Dave’s shoulder, how close their standing, how that sweater of Dave’s is about two sizes too big and black—not his usual color.

“Hold on, first,” John says, waving a finger at them. “Are you two?”

“Yeah.”

“What the fuck?”

“I’ll explain on the way home,” Dirk says softly, reaching out to wrap his fingers around John’s wrist. The contact lasts only a second before he’s pulling away, not an angry jerk, but a subtle shy away from his touch.

“Okay.” John blows out a dramatic raspberry, running a hand through his wind-swept hair. “Yeah, sure. Let’s go.”

Freedom. Finally, he’s allowed to leave, and he gets one foot out of the door before he realizes John isn’t behind him. Turning, he finds Dave with his arm around him, their heads leaning in close, foreheads touching. Dave’s whispering something to him, low enough that he can’t hear but Dirk’s fairly certain it’s about him. But, when John’s blue eyes cut over to him, expression unreadable, he _knows_ it.

He feels like he’s freefalling without a parachute, just waiting for the impact. In his head, Dirk replays every moment he could have done better. Every moment he could have told John the truth. Every moment he should have pulled his head out of his ass and realized that what he felt was _more_ than what was acceptable in the realm of platonic friendship. Even if his realization on the matter had been as recent as John sticking his dick in him, he can’t deny that he’s always subconsciously been living out a domestic fantasy with John. He should have left _years_ ago and saved them both the trouble.

In the elevator, Dirk tries to put some comfortable distance between them, but John seems to stick to his side. No eye contact, but he’s doing that thing where he bites his lip while he concentrates really hard before making a tough decision; like which flavor of ice cream to get at the corner store.

The silence breaks. John, tilts his head up and says, “Hey.”

“Hey.”

A warm hand slides against his palm, John’s fingers interweaving with his. He squeezes, and all the tension in Dirk’s body leaves him in rush.

“John, listen—”

“When we get home, okay?”

Swallowing his trepidation, Dirk nods.

Home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> one more chapter to go! i wanted the conversation that's about to happen to be from john's POV since we get a heavy look into dirk's past and how he's feeling in this one. who wants to place bets on exactly _how_ long they've been pining over each other without realizing?


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> how did this end up being 8k...sheesh. the boys have alot to say...and do.

John remembers being a kid and how his father would chastise him for not paying close enough attention to things. Always accused of having his head in the clouds and scolded for the breezy way he’d shrug off problems like he hadn’t a care in the world. Only to turn around and praise him for his endless optimism and buoyancy.

That’s not it though. It never has been. The truth of the matter is—he sweeps his problems into a bottle and tosses them into the ocean. Then, nine times outta ten, the bottle comes back and comically detonates directly in his face.

And it’s happening right now as he internally wallows. He’s in the living room, standing across from Dirk, his face figuratively covered in soot from a bottled-feelings explosion. The dilemma that he’d so graciously labeled _A Problem for a Different John on a Different Day_ has swept to shore, laid out at his feet, and he’s now the different John and it’s now a different day.

Bluh.

Despite that, he’s not putting all of the blame on his shoulders. Fuck that! Dirk _lied_ to him. This is _their_ burden baby and he isn’t gonna cradle the thing himself. They’re going to have joint custody, court-mandated by him. It just, well, he’s willing to admit that a portion of this whole debacle is due to his tendency to choose not to deal with his issues and internal conflict in a timely manner.

The current issue and internal conflict? Dirk Strider.

Ah, okay. Maybe that’s a mean way to put it.

Dirk isn’t an issue, per se, but John’s feelings for him certainly are. Especially given how he’s avoided expressing said feelings until Dirk felt so bad, he thought he needed to catapult himself directly into a cheesy romantic comedy featuring an ensemble cast of Hollywood favorites. And, that’s the thing! Stuff like that only works in movies and Rose’s weird wizard fanfiction. Not in real life.

The reality is—he’s hurt, he’s partly to blame, and, despite that, he still really wants to kiss Dirk.

John’s had the whole rideshare to work out how to address this conundrum.

He’s got nothing. Zilch.

Double bluh.

To make matters worse, there hadn’t been a lot of wiggle room to talk about any of this between Dave’s apartment and theirs. And John knew this conversation could go down a lot of divergent paths, and he didn’t particularly want the poor Lyft driver to witness _any_ of them. Thankfully, Dirk must have shared this sentiment because he kept quiet, only nodding absently when the silence prickled too much at John’s skin and he felt compelled to make an idle comment about something in the passing city scenery.

Now, here they are. Ready to do this.

“So,” John says, rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet, “Dave and Karkat? Huh. How’d that happen?”

“Yeah. Funny story.” Dirk rubs at the back of his neck, huffing out a nervous laugh that makes John’s stomach flip—

Ugh, no! He’s supposed to be mad right now, not ogling his roommate—who is single! And maybe interested in him! Dirk _had_ held his hand for a considerable amount of time, after all.

Crossing his arms, John puts on a peacock display of irritation and fixes Dirk with an expression drier than the Sahara. “Go on,” he deadpans, “I love to laugh.”

That seems to knock Dirk off his axis a little _too_ much. He blinks, visibly taken back. “Okay.”

Sighing, Dirk goes to sit on the arm of the couch, ass hovering mid-air before he reconsiders and opts to sit on the cushions like a normal person. Except he doesn’t even do that, he slouches and manspreads. Then, he must realize that he looks like a tool because he crosses his legs at the ankle only to uncross them quickly. He tries to leverage his elbow on the sofa arm and misses, playing it off like it was purposeful. Finally, he stops fidgeting altogether and settles for sitting ramrod straight with his hands on his knees.

John watches the train wreck unfold with an arched brow and plops down beside him, their thighs pressing together, knees knocking.

Neither of them mention it.

“We all went for lunch a couple of days after I met Karkat.” Dirk shrugs, obviously trying to reclaim his nonchalant, cool-guy attitude. Loser. “Something in my gut said they’d hit it off.”

“That easy?”

“God, no. They fucking fought the entire time. I had to tip our server fifty percent because I was so embarrassed. You know how Dave is, purposely a prick when he doesn’t know how to handle what he’s feeling. He saw a cute troll and his brain flash-stepped back to the kindergarten playground.”

“That checks out,” John agrees with a resigned sigh. Leave it to Dave to pick up a beau by being a charismatic asshole. Guess that kinda makes sense. He doesn’t know much about Troll culture—and he should probably be ashamed of that—but he’s fairly certain he remembers reading about…

Hmm.

John swallows, face going hot. “That’s a Troll thing, right? The whole, uh, hate-flirting?”

“I think so,” Dirk says.

The air goes oddly still between them.

John gets it, he thinks. The whole hate-flirting thing. He doesn’t hate Dirk, that’s probably impossible. But he is really mad at him! Grabbing him by the chin and dragging him into a bruising kiss seems a lot more preferable to decking him in the nose. Biting at the hard muscle at the juncture of his neck, raking his nails down Dirk’s back, taking out all the frustration that’s been building within him these past months.

Mouth dry, he swallows. “Huh. I guess that’s pretty interesting.”

“I guess.” Dirk taps his fingers on his knee. “Enough about that. Dave and Karkat? Whatever they’re doing now isn’t hate-anything. You saw them.”

Yeah. John saw them alright. He’s not sure he’s ever seen Dave look so…happy. Though, to be fair, neither of the Striders have a very good range when it comes to emoting. Always hiding behind their shades to neutralize their expressions and mask their emotions. He supposes that makes sense, given the hairier details of their past.

Luckily for John, he doesn’t typically need those visual cues. He knows them both pretty well. Which is why it’s doubly disappointing that Dirk didn’t trust him with his feelings. Dirk has shared intimate memories with him, things that John will take to the grave. In the early days, when they’d moved from Texas to Washington, both of them had nightmares a lot. He remembers sitting with Dirk on the couch, back when in it was still a futon, quietly listening as Dirk opened and closed old wounds. And, on John’s worst nights, when his brain got so full and heavy, when all the bottles he’d tossed to the waves washed back to shore, Dirk had been there to listen as he uncorked his insecurities one by one.

He thought they’d been good at communicating. Late-night feeling jams didn’t happen as frequently anymore, but that’s because they both were better. Right?

Geeze. He’s failed at this friend thing pretty hard.

“Yeah,” John says finally, “I’m happy for them.”

“Me too.”

The low static hum between them amplifies. Every hair on the back of his neck stands up, he’s so on edge. Just knowing where this conversation is going makes him want to hurl. Turns out, talking about things is a lot harder when the subject is sitting next to you.

“What about—” John swallows down nothing for the umpteenth time. “What about us?”

“What do you mean?” Dirk asks carefully. He’s still got his shades on but sits close enough that John can see past the tint.

They’re masking fear.

John’s heart shatters into a million pieces and he’s never been so fucking thankful for those dumb, triangle glasses. If he saw that look, directed at him, unobstructed, he might breakdown. Right here in the living room. Full-blown waterworks because Dirk is _afraid_ of what he might do or say.

Fuck. Did he make Dirk think…? That he would do something like kick him out over an unrequited crush? Out of _their_ home? Oh my god—does he think this thing between them is _unrequited?_

“What about us!” John says again, louder. “Don’t we get to be happy?”

Beside him, Dirk only blinks.

The laugh that bubbles out of him is a bit hysterical, and John runs his hand through his hair, fingers catching in the loops of his unbrushed curls.

Alright, time to do this.

“Look, I’m not going to pretend like I’m not angry about you lying to me for weeks! You made me think you were in a relationship with someone who was apparently dating your brother and after everything that went down between us—it hurt to watch!” The confession hangs there, feeling like a weight off his chest, like he can breathe properly for the first time since pressing Dirk into the carpet. “It really hurt.”

“I’m sorry,” Dirk responds quietly. “I don’t know what else to say other than I’m sorry. You deserved better than that. You deserve better than me. I’m not Dave—”

“I don’t want you to be Dave,” John snaps, cutting him off. “I want you to be you. I like you. You’re weird and sort of a jerk—”

“Is that your idea of a compliment?”

Elbowing him in the arm, John narrows his eyes, just barely fighting the urge to stick his tongue out. Whatever. He knows they’re meant to be compliments. “Let me finish.”

With a straight face, Dirk mimes zipping his lips, tossing an invisible key over his shoulder.

“That brings me to my next point,” John says. “You’re a fucking nerd too. Wait, before you say anything, that _is_ a compliment—a legit one! I like that you’re a nerd. You used to intimidate me a lot when we were younger. You were like—this cool, mysterious figure that Dave talked about all the time. Then you started hanging around and stuff and I got to know you!” Here, John elbows him again, if only for an excuse to touch. “Turns out, you’re a just a huge dweeb.”

“I resent that.”

“You can’t argue though,” John says, gesturing to the dumb, cheap katana still hanging on the living room wall. Dirk spares one glance at it and shrugs. “See! It’s not a bad thing! I think it’s cool.”

“You…think I’m cool?”

The tone in Dirk’s voice catches him off-guard. He sounds like he’s genuinely surprised. Like he has no idea that John has basically hero-worshipped him since he was thirteen. Dave’s cool older brother. Never mind that he’s only barely a year older than them both.

John wouldn’t say he had a crush on Dirk back then—he just was consciously aware of him at all times, despite being thousands of miles away. Just because he used to get nervous butterflies when Dave would groan and announce that Dirk was with him at the beginning of their video chats, that doesn’t mean anything!

And when he and Dave turned eighteen and his dad paid for his first apartment and he invited both Striders to live with him, it was because Dirk was his friend too and their situation sucked! John definitely didn’t continue to live in this janky starter apartment with him because he was afraid broaching the conversation of moving would make Dirk want to leave—

Oh god. He’s a fucking idiot.

He’s been pining over Dirk for literal years and never realized it.

“I think you’re more than that, I guess,” John says weakly, chest heavy.

“You guess?” Dirk leans close enough that he can probably, definitely hear the uptick in John’s already rapid heartbeat. “That sounds really convincing, Egbert.”

“Shut up. Let me say what I need to say!” Biting his lip, John muffles his frustrated sigh. He just needs to do it. Just like a Band-Aid, right? Rip it off and the sting will only last a moment.

“Well?”

“Okay, it’s like this!” He takes a deep breath in and holds it, letting it out slowly like a deflating balloon. It’s probably not the most attractive thing he’s ever done, but it does help to calm his nerves. “I like you, a lot. I maybe even more than like you. I think maybe I have for a long time. Who knows! The problem is, I should have told you that from the beginning. I’ve definitely known since we, uh—”

“Fucked?” Dirk supplies, helpfully.

“Gee. Yeah, what a way to word it! I was trying to keep it clean!”

“We are both adults.” Dirk tilts his head like a curious cat. “You’ve literally been inside me.”

Woah, woah, woah. John buries his face in his hands, rubbing them down his face in exasperation. He looks more tomato than human, but that’s fine. Everything is fine!

“Okay, I was trying to keep it, I don’t know. Romantic?”

“Are you trying to romance me?”

“Oh my god, Dirk. Are you fucking with me right now?”

Next to him, Dirk’s typically stony expression cracks, just a bit. A fissure in the form of a grin. He’s totally fucking with him. What an asshole.

John shoves him into the arm of the couch and the levy breaks. Dirk laughs, like actually laughs, and John realizes he’d forgotten how much he loves the sound. A warm feeling spreads through him, soothing the tension in his muscles, and he melts next to him.

This never had to be a hard thing—Dirk is. Well.

Dirk _is_.

Uh.

“Is it working?” John blurts out. “The, uh, romancing thing?”

“I just followed a horrendously bad plan devised by a love-obsessed troll in a futile attempt to get you to notice how I felt about you. Do I look like the authority on romance?”

“No. That was really stupid.”

“I know.”

“You’re really stupid.”

“I know.”

Fine. If Dirk wants a rom-com? He’ll give him a rom-com. He’s seen Failure to Launch!

John leans closer, feeling brave, and mumbles, “I really want to kiss you right now.”

Dirk’s breath hitches.

With one hand, John reaches to slip his fingers beneath Dirk’s shades, pushing them up and off, dropping them blindly to the floor. Bold move. Strangely, that doesn’t get an overt reaction, not even an eye roll or frown. This close, he can see the silver-white scar on his forehead, cutting though freckles and nicking the tail end of his eyebrow. Dirk looks directly at him, amber eyes wide like a deer in the headlights.

And, well, John supposes that must make him the moderately-priced sedan hurdling through a dimly lit backroad at midnight.

He leans in again, this time with intent and he—

Stops.

With a cat-like reflex, two hands reach up and grab either side of his face, freezing him just inches away from Dirk’s very kissable mouth. The pressure on his cheeks squishes his lips together in a manner that he’s sure is very alluring. Not exactly how he thought this would go.

 _“Bwuhat?”_ John asks—or, attempts to.

Talking is hard. They’ve established this. Now it’s physically hard too.

“We still have a few things to hash out,” Dirk tells him, deadly serious for someone who’s just turned their bro— _brofriend?_ —into a human pufferfish. “That first and then—”

_“Kisshing?”_

“Maybe. You look pretty ridiculous right now.”

John groans and bats away Dirk’s hand, blowing a raspberry in his direction the moment his jaws are free. “Okay, fine. That sounds like the responsible thing to do, I guess.”

Responsible _and_ reasonable. Two things that he’s clearly not. It’s like Dirk enters a five-foot radius and his brain turns to slime and he misplaces all critical thought.

_Hey, Dirk! I know you’re my best friend and roommate and you’ve never expressed any interest in me before. Do you want to fuck? I’m already taking my shirt off!_

_Oh, you’ve got a boyfriend? How about we wrestle around on the floor in a totally straight and platonic way? That sounds like a great time and not horny at all!_

_I just found out you’re actually single—and so am I! And, maybe, you have feelings for me like I have feelings for you? Wow. Better go in right for the kill without confirming!_

Sheesh. He’s the valedictorian of Dumbass University.

“You good? Looks like you zoned out there for a second,” Dirk says carefully.

John silently gives him the A-Okay hand gesture and tries to sit more attentive, focusing on Dirk rather than the pounding in his chest. The sharp cut of his jaw; the point of his nose; the way his eyes reflect gold in the warm light of the table lamp.

And it’s the rich baritone of his voice that jars John back to attention. Again.

“Listen. There are some things I need to get off my chest that aren’t going to be easy for me to say—”

“Dirk,” John cuts in, not unkindly. “I get it. It’s fine. I mean that. We’ve established that it was a stupid plan but it’s okay. I forgive you! I promise.” To prove his point, John smiles brightly and pats Dirk’s knee once, twice, three times…Okay. That’s enough.

Dirk doesn’t return his smile, nor does he so much as flinch. Oh.

John’s heart sinks to the pit of his gut.

“I’m glad I have your forgiveness.” Dirk’s gaze drops and he takes a deep breath. “I really am. Because I won’t lie to you—I was prepared to go the rest of my life beggin’ for it. What I did wasn’t cool. I wanted you to hurt in the same way I was hurting. I’m fucked up, John, you know that.”

“You’re not—”

He barely gets the words out before Dirk’s piercing him with a sharp glare that shuts him right up. Without looking down, John grabs Dirk’s fidgeting hand, the tightness in his chest loosening when Dirk allows it. He squeezes it and swears he hears a sigh of relief. Though, he may be the one that made it.

“I am,” Dirk quietly insists. “Please. Let me say this, and then the floor is all yours. I know that I hurt you and I’m lucky that you’re willing to forgive all this fuckery on my part so easily. That’s not something that I’m used to experiencing. I’d say that I sometimes forget how truly kind you are—but I don’t. Even when you’re being an absolute bastard, you’re doing it because you are a good fucking person.”

Luckily for Dirk and his monologue, John’s rendered speechless. He couldn’t interrupt if he wanted to, mouth agape and eyes wide. His hand squeezes the ever-loving life out of the fingers in its grasp.

Dirk holds up a finger to silence him anyway.

“I’m saying this because it’s true and to cushion what I’m about to say next.” He fixes John with another look, and suddenly he’s stone. Those spikes in his hair may as well be snakes. John braces himself for impact and Dirk says, flat out, “I’m not the only one that needs to apologize.”

Oh.

“I,” John starts, stammering out a string of syllables that definitely aren’t words in any living or dead language. “I—I’m sorry? Wait. That wasn’t a question. I _am_ sorry. Geez, I’m really fucking this up. I should have told you how I felt from the beginning and none of this would have happened.”

“That’s not it. I mean, that’s part of it. But—” Dirk smiles but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “You hurt me too. John, do you even realize that you…That you turned it all into a joke? You made me feel like I was an accessory in a really fucked-up prank.”

Ah, fuck.

Fuck.

John walks over to the figurative window in his head and opens it. Then he balls up the ludicrous notion that he ever be able to solve this with words and promptly tosses it out. Talking. That’s probably a great tactic for most people, but what he’s feeling right now is beyond verbal comprehension. The answers that Dirk searches his face for just don’t exist in his empty head.

John supposes he’ll just have to show him instead. He grabs Dirk by the collar and closes the gap.

Dirk freezes under the desperate touch, not quite returning the kiss. But, when John reaches up, fingers threading through the baby hairs at the nape of Dirk’s neck, Dirk whimpers, and John swallows the sound like he’s starving. The only thing he knows for certain is that when Dirk opens for him, he takes invitation graciously, licking into his mouth and cradling him with a firm hand at the base of his skull to let Dirk know that he’s not going anywhere. He’s right there. He’s staying and he’s so fucking sorry.

John kisses Dirk, and kisses him, and kisses him and hopes, with every fiber of his being, that he’s getting the message across.

“John. John, wait—” Dirk pushes him back, but his fingers curl in the front of John’s shirt to keep him from going too far. “Think about this. Think about what we’re doing.”

“I have! I’ve thought about it a lot. I know that at first, yeah, I was acting on impulse, but I think even then…Being with you? It’d been simmering in the head for a while. I saw an opportunity and took it and—Look, after everything? I still don’t regret it.”

Dirk’s eyes dart back and forth, searching John’s face. He’s sure to keep it as serious as possible. No jokes. No pranks. Just blunt-force honesty.

The longer Dirk stays silent, the more John’s bravado falters. A new fear pings like a flickering, busted lightbulb in the back of his head.

“Do you regret it?”

“No,” Dirk says quickly. His entire face softens, but the overlay of worry doesn’t. “I think I regret a lot of things that happened after, but not that. This isn’t me regretting it. This is me giving you an out. I’m damaged fuckin’ goods, man.”

John’s heart pulls in two, a visceral and real pain right through the center of his chest.

“You’re not damaged goods, you’re a person! And, even if you were, I’m not here to fix you. The only thing I can do is just, I don’t know, be here and I—” John chokes down a confession he’s not quite ready for. “The point is, you aren’t the bad things that happened to you, just like I’m not the good things that happen to me. Get it?”

“Yeah,” Dirk says, breathless. “Holy shit. Okay.”

“Plus, who cares if you’re a little cracked? It makes you authentic! Like, if I had to choose between a new blue-ray version of Ghostbusters or an old, worn VHS—”

“Stop talking. Everything you just said was surprisingly profound and heartfelt, and I’m honestly feeling a little discombobulated trying to process it all. So, please don’t ruin it by comparing me to a discount, thrift store, ratty-ass Ghostbusters VHS tape. I’m begging you.”

“Oh. Yeah.” John huffs out a laugh, smiling sheepishly. “Good point.”

“For what it’s worth, I appreciate where that sentiment was trying to go. I really do. I know you like those things.”

“I _love_ those things,” he corrects. 

Dirk freezes.

John freezes.

Everything in the world freezes, save the heavy-handed implications of that statement.

There it is, out in the open, and he can’t even feign ignorance. He’d cross his fingers and hope that Dirk didn’t actually pick up what he just so clumsily laid down, but Dirk’s staring directly at him and his mouth is pressed into a hard line and he looks like he’s about five seconds from absconding.

Or from tearing his clothes off. It’s honestly hard to tell.

“Is that okay?” John asks softly. “If not, I get it but—”

Dirk kisses him, shutting him up, and it’s answer enough. This time, it’s John who needs a moment to catch up, brain malfunctioning when he realizes this is the first time that Dirk has been the one to initiate.

He leans back, pulling John with him. The new position is awkward, Dirk pressed against the arm of the couch, and John on sprawled on top, leg half-hanging off the couch and elbow digging into the cushion. It’s hard to talk with a tongue desperately exploring his mouth, but John at least manages to make an inquiring grunt against Dirk’s lips.

_Where exactly is this headed?_

A hand comes down hard on his ass, fingers digging into the meat of his cheek and squeezing, dragging him in until his hips are flush with—oh, okay.

Hell yes.

Dirk bites John’s bottom lip, just hard enough to elicit an embarrassing whine, and suddenly the hand on his ass has snaked around to tug fervently on his zipper. John wants, more than anything, to escape his denim-clad prison but…

“Wait.” The look he gets is sharp enough to kill. John gets it, he doesn’t exactly want to hold up this either, but this is kinda important. “Come to bed with me.”

“What?” Dirk raises an eyebrow. “Are you trying to make love to me?”

John sputters, but only for a moment. “Yeah, I guess so! Is that so bad? Unless you’re just really into carpet burn or getting fucked on old couches.”

“Not particularly,” Dirk says flatly, “I’m pretty into you fucking me on every other surface in this apartment though.”

“Okay, okay,” John blurts, pointedly ignoring the way his dick jumps in curious interest. There will be plenty of time to defile the kitchen later. “How about we start small with my bed?”

“No. C’mon, let’s get weird.” Dirk pretends to think. “The logistics of shower sex aren’t worth the trouble, honestly. How about on the balcony? We’re high enough up that we can probably get away with it. I’ve always wanted to get railed to a symphony of car horns and sirens.”

John groans, partly because he’s frustrated and partly because, despite the sarcasm, that sounds like a really, really awesome idea. He knows exactly what Dirk is doing though. He’s deflecting. It’s all over his stupidly handsome face. The thought of getting fucked in a bed right now is scaring the shit out of him and it’s scaring the shit out of John too but it’s _important._

Dirk needs to know that he’s serious and that this is real, not some horny experiment that he’s going to joke away in the morning. Not some flippant, casual sex that means nothing more than a temporary good time.

“Let’s go.”

Clamoring off the couch, John extends a hand to Dirk, yanking him up. Dirk doesn’t argue, he doesn’t put up a protest, and he lets John guide him down the hall. The way he eyeballs the bathroom door doesn’t go amiss, but John tugs him right past it. He was right about that, at least. Shower sex isn’t worth the sprained ankle and bruised tailbone.

When they arrive, there’s no big commotion. There’s no heated kiss against the door while John fumbles to open it. Just two guys, quietly entering a bedroom, intent of having sex. And the trip from the couch to John’s room was just enough to tamper down the urgency and leave things palpably awkward.

Man. Maybe this was a stupid idea. He could have easily shown Dirk how much he cares on the living room floor! A bed probably doesn’t even symbolize what he thinks it does. People have anonymous, loveless sex in beds all the time.

A hand on his cheek calms his turbulent thoughts. Dirk is there, standing in front of him and, all at once, John’s hit with the reality of what they’ve both been dancing around. Suddenly, he _gets_ why Dirk has been so hesitant and downright stupid about this. Because with the fog of his sexuality crisis mostly gone, it’s clear as day. Years and years of friendship are at stake here. Everything that’s happened before this moment can be written off of a blip in the timeline.

But if they make this a conscious decision…

John walks him backward, toward the bed, slowly undressing him as he goes. By the time the back of Dirk’s knees knock against the edge of the mattress, John already has his shirt stripped over his head and he’s shaking his own off his arm.

Wordlessly, Dirk falls back. His hands immediately go to unbutton his pants and the sound of dragging zipper teeth makes John shiver. Standing at the edge of the bed, he watches as Dirk rids himself of his jeans, helping only when they get caught on his ankle. In the back of his mind, he’s aware he should probably be taking his pants off too—but there's something about seeing Dirk Strider naked on his sheets that fries the part of his brain capable of cognitive thought.

“What?” Dirk grumbles. “You really know how to make a guy feel self-conscious.”

“Huh?”

“You’re staring,” he clarifies.

“You just look really good.”

“I don’t know how you can even see me from back there.” With that, Dirk scoots back on the bed, spreads his legs, and beckons John closer. “C’mere. Lose the pants first.”

He doesn’t need telling twice. In seconds, his pants are gone, boxers too, and the space between Dirk’s freckled thighs fits his bulk perfectly when he crawls on top.

John smiles down, all teeth. “Hi.”

“Hey.”

Enough of that. John drags a hand up Dirk’s chest, really taking his time to map out every muscle and rigid scar. He knows the origin of most of them, and he finds and deliberately runs a fingertip along the one he’s responsible for—a long cut beneath his ribcage. They’d been drunk, goofing off with one of Dirk’s shitty anime swords that had turned out to be not as shitty as they thought.

“Asshole,” Dirk murmurs. “You’re proud of that one.”

John gives him a goofy smile and dips his head, giving him a chaste kiss. “A little bit, yeah.”

He kisses him again, much less chaste, and he trades tracing scars for rolling Dirk’s nipple between his fingers, pinching lightly until it’s pert and hard. It gets him a low whistle of air between teeth, and Dirk arches into him, close enough that John can feel his dick drag across his inner thigh, already wet and hard.

Oh, huh.

He’s never really experimented with his own nipples before, he’d always just assumed that was a girl thing…but maybe he should rectify that; Dirk looks pretty into it, panting and leaning into his touch. John realizes, absently, how absolutely stupid that sounds. It’s just that Dirk’s the only guy he’s been with and their escapade had been a cut-and-dry fuck with basically no foreplay, save John opening him up. And, even though he _really_ enjoyed doing that, it’d served as a necessary precursor for the main event.

John thumbs at his nipples, lightly teasing, before he pinches again. Dirk _whines._

“You like that?” he asks, genuinely curious.

Dirk squeezes his eyes shut and nods fervently. He rocks up, this time to purposely rut against John. The angle is off, but on the third attempt, John meets him halfway, lining their hips up and each small thrust upward has their dicks meeting, rubbing together for delicious friction, even without the aid of lube.

“Oh, _shit_ ,” John hisses, grinding down. Every inch of Dirk is smooth, hot, and hard against him. It’s not enough to get either of them off but it _is_ enough to have him dropping to his elbows, seeking Dirk’s mouth for a messy, desperate kiss.

There are a lot of things that John would like to get around to…eventually. Again, things that typically come _before_ scoring a home run, or whatever the euphemism is, but right now he just needs a reset from their first time. A second round with all their cards laid out on the table.

He decides he can at least make Dirk aware of that between kisses.

“One day, I wanna try to get off like this,” John mutters.

Beneath him, Dirk shudders and jerks his hips up, letting out a breathy moan. Oh. He hadn’t been aiming for that reaction, just figured open communication was what they were going for, but the way Dirk claws his nails down his back and cranes his neck for John to put his mouth on— _well._

He’s not gonna stop now. There’s plenty more on the list and if it gets that reaction, he’s more than inclined to share.

John unlatches himself from sucking a bruise along his throat and says, “I want to suck your dick too.”

The noise Dirk let’s out might be a word, but it’s nothing that John can decipher, except that obviously, he liked it. That sends a spark straight down his spine, between his legs where he's already achingly hard.

Which reminds him…

“I want you to suck mine.”

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Dirk gasps. His nails cut right into the skin of John’s back. “Yeah, okay. You have no idea how many times I’ve thought about that. But right now? I need you to fuck me. I’ll suck your dick in the morning, just—Holy shit, John. _Hurry up._ ”

Can fucking do!

He tears himself away and stretches over to root around his nightstand drawer for the essentials. The bed shifts and bounces and when he’s finally got his hands on what he needs, he turns to find Dirk has moved to lay down properly, instead of sprawled out horizontal with his legs hanging off the edge.

At the sight, warmth swells in John’s chest and all he can think about is how good, how perfect, Dirk looks there on the side of the bed that’s usually empty. Natural. Comfortable.

Neither of them speak as John repositions them; John on his knees between Dirk's thighs with Dirk on his back, head pressed against the pillow. A surreally intimate feeling passes through him, something akin to contentment. He’d spent weeks convincing himself this was a pipe dream, convinced himself that Dirk didn’t want him in that way, and coming to terms with the fact he wished he did. He didn’t think that he could have this and now—here it is.

Here _he_ is.

“Hey,” Dirk says softly, pulling his thoughts back to the ground. “You okay?”

“Yeah, just thinking.” A flash of fear on Dirk’s face has John scrambling. “Wait! No, not in a bad way. I was just…ah, man, don’t make me say it. Just know it was super sweet and really romantic.”

“What poorly-aged relic were you comparing me to this time?”

John groans. “Are you ever going to let that go?”

“Probably not,” he says, smiling. It’s such a nice smile, unguarded in the moment. John wishes he would do it more often. “Anything else before we get this ball rollin’?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“Good.” Dirk plucks the bottle of lube straight from John’s hand and pop opens the cap. “Hand,” he demands.

John swallows thickly. That’s, uh, hot. He apparently _really_ likes it when Dirk is bossy, or at least his dick does. He holds his hand out and something cold hits his palm but he’s too busy melting under the appreciative, heated look Dirk gives him for obeying. Oh, no. That’s something to…put a pin in.

Dirk takes him by the wrist and guides his hand down, right where he needs to be.

There’s no rush when John opens him up. He starts slow, one finger, and listens to the quiet symphony of hitched breath and soft sighs. Dirk’s fingers curls against his shoulder blades, digging in and dragging him down to kiss him while he works. By the time John’s up to three, kissing isn’t an option, both of them too turned on and unraveled to do anything more than pant, open-mouthed, against each other. Dirk, rocking down ungracefully, takes him to the knuckle like a champ.

Honestly, he could spend all night finger-fucking Dirk until he’s a sobbing mess but he’s so hard it’s bordering distracting. At least he’s spent enough time stretching him open that he’s figured out where to push and rub to get Dirk to produce those sounds that he likes. To prove a point to himself, John crooks his fingers, and Dirk makes a noise so loud that, on reflex, John almost clasps a hand over his mouth to silence it.

But he doesn’t have to. He doesn’t even _need_ to. The pre-existing rule of being quiet, polite, and courteous has been abolished. It’s just them and if Dirk wants to scream, he can. In fact, John would really, really like to make him do just that.

For good measure, he milks that sound out again.

Dirk leans up on his elbows, panting, with his eyes narrowed in silent warning. One look down tells John everything he needs to know about what _that_ threat entails. Dirk’s cock is at full attention, so hard it’s way beyond the point of firmly laying on his stomach, though there’s a shiny patch of skin serving as good evidence that it had been at one point. It’s red and angry—and typically John wouldn’t find those adjectives particularly appealing for a dick, but it looks like Dirk one stroke away from blowing and that’s…

That’s good because—holy fuck, he’s in the same boat and he knows that once he’s in there won’t a lot of time on the countdown clock.

Dirk doesn’t protest when John slips his fingers out in favor of rolling the condom on and slicking himself up. He just lays back down, head resting against the pillow, watching with languid eyes and the barest hint of a smile on his face. He looks happy, at ease, and there are two entities at war in John’s brain at the sight. One wants to cry because Dirk deserves to look that way all the time. The other wants to fuck him like, _really_ bad.

John smooths his hand up the flank of Dirk’s thigh, the light dusting of hair tickling his palm, and lines himself up. They're here. They're finally back to where they started. Sorta. The beginning of the end, at least.

When he pushes in, Dirk lets out a long, drawn-out breath, and his legs immediately hook around John’s back to squeeze and pull him closer, and oh, _god._ How the hell is he still so tight?

“Dirk—” John cuts himself off, dropping his head to catch his breath. The squeeze around his dick is dizzying and he has to pause, take a breather because if he doesn’t, he’s done for. Under him, Dirk’s breathing heavy and muttering something incoherent between clenched teeth.

It’s overwhelming, in all aspects.

Dirk must think so too because, instead of saying anything, he gets a hand on the back of John’s head and drags him down into a bruising kiss. John lets himself get caught up in it, kissing frantically while he does best to keep still, all while remaining buried to the hilt. He knows he won’t last long, but he at least wants to _last._

Kissing helps. The fever between each press of lips and bite of teeth calms into something gentle and sweet; Dirk with his hand in John’s hair and John supporting himself with weak arms that are slowly turning to jelly. With little urgency, he draws his hips back and pushes back in, pulling a soft moan from Dirk. John does it again.

Again.

On the third thrust, he slams home, and those soft, whimpering moans turn into sharp gasps.

Wow. He missed that sound. A lot.

The urgency is back, full force. John settles back on his haunches and grapples with Dirk’s thighs, hauling him closer until they’re pressed flush together and Dirk’s scrambling for purchase on the sheets, his wide-eyed expression morphing into a heavy-lidded challenge. He manhandles one of Dirk’s legs to hook over his shoulder and presses forward to create just the right angle to hit that spot he’d found with his fingers and—

Dirk hisses. “Oh, _fuck—_ ”

There it is.

“Good?” John asks because it’s the only thing he can manage to say and, even then, it comes out like an inquisitive sigh. He just _really_ needs to hear that Dirk likes it. For his ego and his heart, but mostly for his dick.

“Yeah—Holy fuck, yeah,” Dirk babbles between slaps of sweat-slick skin. “It’s good. It’s really good. John.”

The rest becomes of a litany of John’s name and profanity.

John shudders with his entire body and doesn’t stop. He can’t. The finish line is his sight and he’s sprinting toward it, honestly surprised that he’s made it this long. And, because he’s nothing if not a generous lover, he reaches down and grabs Dirk’s dick the moment he feels that familiar coil of heat in his gut. It takes exactly two clumsy strokes to have Dirk arching off the bed and spilling over John’s hand and it’s probably close to the hottest thing he’s ever seen.

If Dirk’s saying anything, John can’t hear. The only thing in his head is the rush of blood, the smack of his hips against Dirk’s ass, and his own grunts as he holds him open by the knees and drives hard and deeper than he’s ever managed with anyone before and holy fuck, _holy fuck_.

There’s no use in even trying to shout a warning because he’s more than positive they’re both very aware that he’s coming, pumping the condom full as lets the tight heat of Dirk’s body wring every last drop from him before he collapses like a useless puddle against his chest.

It’s a miracle that Dirk lets him lay there catching his breath as long as he does. A few moments pass and he’s being rolled off to flop on his back, limp like a ragdoll, staring at the ceiling with a blissful, dopey expression on his face. He chances a peek over at Dirk to see he's pretty much the same predicament, hand in his hair, open-mouth panting but unable to hide the glee.

“That was better than I remember,” John tells him. He means it as a compliment but Dirk frowns.

“Yeah.”

Maybe conversation about their last tryst isn’t the best pillow talk. They both remember what happened afterward. John gay-panicked and Dirk gay-panicked in a different way—AKA he did something really dramatic. Wait. Is that homophobic? Can he be homophobic if he’s, uh, gaysexual? Bisexual. Whatever, his gay-panic is over. It’s been established.

He should probably say something to let Dirk know he’s not gonna freak-out.

“I love you.”

Shit. What! No, not that.

“Uh.” Dirk turns his head and blinks. “That’s a pretty massive bomb to drop on the second date.”

Scrambling to lean on his elbows, John pushes his glasses back up the bridge of his nose and looks to Dirk. Sure, he’s already basically confessed but that had been cryptic as fuck and not straightforward at all. They both _knew_ what he meant but saying those three letters out loud…

That’s big business.

It’s also true.

“First of all,” John starts, wagging a finger between them, “I wouldn’t call this a second date. I don’t even think I would call it a first. Before you say anything, I want to take you on a real first date. To the movies or something normal—as long as I can pick! I’m not sitting through a fucking snooze-fest for you.”

“Darlin’, you’re too kind,” Dirk sardonically drawls. He’s using humor, masked as sarcasm, masked as irony, masked as something, to deflect. Again.

Jokes on him, John thinks his Texan accent is hot. _Especially_ when he plays it up to McConaughey levels of ridiculous.

“Second of all, I _do_ love you. Maybe it’s not, you know, super romantic levels of love yet. I’m not going to go buy a diamond ring and force Dave to choose sides—”

“He’s my brother. He’s my Best Man by default.”

John rolls his eyes. “My point is, I loved you way before any of this happened. I guess I never told you that though, not even drunkenly. Maybe that makes me a shitty friend, I don’t know…but it’s true. I love you a lot. It’s really hard to imagine my life without you and now it’s going to be even harder to imagine my life without _this._ ”

Dirk goes quiet, no playful barb locked and loaded this time. His head is turned back toward the ceiling, and he fixes it with an intense glare.

“It’s okay if you don’t want to say it back,” John tells him, “I get it.”

“Sorry. I’m not,” Dirk sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose, “I’m not good at this. I’m not _used_ to this. The only other person who’s ever told me that they loved me is Dave. I mean, the only person who’s said it and meant it. Roxy’s midnight acronyms don’t count.”

“Roxy does love you though,” John tells him unhelpfully. He knows that’s not what Dirk means and it hurts to hear. “I know. I just—I wish it weren’t true.”

“It’s fine.”

“Not really! Stop doing that.”

“Doing what?”

“Pretending like you’re not worthy of being loved! That’s a load of bullshit and you know it. You’re probably the most deserving person that I know,” John shouts. He’s sitting up now, still naked, still an absolute mess, and still completely in love with the moron next to him. He folds his arms across his chest. “Sorry, but I guess I love you, whether you like it or not.”

Wordlessly, Dirk rolls off of the bed and to his feet.

John’s heart stops. “Wait, hold on.”

“Relax. I’m just getting a towel to clean us up. I’m not sleeping in a bed with you filthy like that.”

And his heart resumes beating. “You’re sleeping in here? I mean—yeah, of course, you are!”

He gets a carefully raised eyebrow in return.

“I want you to,” John clarifies.

Dirk huffs for a response and places a hand on the doorframe. His face doesn’t give away much, but John clocks the edge of a smile. “Alright,” he says, turning to go presumably to the bathroom. He stops, looking over his shoulder, and hesitates before tacking on, “I love you too.”

Something in John’s stomach flutters rapidly and his whole body goes light and airy and he feels like he could float right through the ceiling. Dirk leaves before he can respond and honestly, that’s probably for the best. He’s notoriously good at goofing up tender moments by opening his mouth. While he waits, he strips off the condom and does his best not to think about how gross it is that he’s been wearing it through his entire love confession. Whatever, it’s fine. Dirk admitted that he loves him and nothing is going to ruin his high.

Not even when Dirk pops the wet towel against his bare ass. Not even when he wrestles it from Dirk’s hands and returns the favor. Especially not when they fall back into bed, laughing, and John gets to kiss him slowly until he shuts up, or when they click off the light and talk for hours in the dark. It’s a lot like how things were before. Easy and effortless. Except, now he gets to have Dirk’s head on his chest as he drifts off the sleep.

It should probably feel weird, John thinks, but it doesn’t. Not at all. It just feels like they’ve finally taken the next step in their relationship. Like maybe they’d been climbing the same set of stairs at different paces for years but here they are. Together.

John turns on his side and scoops up Dirk’s sleeping deadweight, wrapping his arms around him, and pulling him close enough to bury his nose in his hair. It smells like the shampoo he uses, hair gel, and understandable a little like sweat. They both probably should have taken a shower, in all honesty. In the morning though, _after_ his promised blowjob. No, he hasn’t forgotten.

For now, exhaustion pulls heavy at his eyelids and John falls asleep holding Dirk tight against him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> woah, i...i can't believe this ended up being like 30k. i am also overwhelmed and in awe of all the support i've received through this endeavor. all of the comments and support have been so lovely and encouraging and i truly appreciate them all. a shoutout to andy, who listened to be babble and fret over every chapter and offered advice and inspiration. and a big shoutout to my server buddies who helped me make it to the finish line with this thing and cheered me on. ilu guys so much!
> 
> again, thank you for sticking with me to the end!! than you for all your comments and feedback! i'm really, really glad you enjoyed this because i really enjoyed writing it.
> 
> as always, you can find me on insta @ ectobaby!
> 
> until next time! <3


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